The Earth, That Is Nature's Mother, Is

Awake, Awake, English Nobility! Let Not Sloth Dim Your Horrors New-begot.

Yield Not Thy Neck To Fortunes Yoke, But Let Thy Dauntless Mind Still Ride In Triumph Over All Mischance.

My Brain More Busy Than The Labouring Spider Weaves Tedious Snares To Trap Mine Enemies.

Yet Do I Fear Thy Nature; It Is Too Full O' The Milk Of Human Kindness To Catch The Nearest Way: Thou Wouldst Be Great; Art Not Without Ambition, But Without The Illness Should Attend It: What Thou Wouldst Highly, That Wouldst Thou Holily; Wouldst Not Play False, And Yet Wouldst Wrongly Win.

An Old Man, Broken With The Storms Of State, Is Come To Lay His Weary Bones Among Ye; Give Him A Little Earth For Charity!