The Greater I Am, The Greater Shall

For Death Betimes Is Comfort, Not Dismay, And Who Can Rightly Die Needs No Delay.

Whyle I Was Abowte To Chaunge Myn Olde Lyff-- What Sorowe I Suffred, Dyseese, Angre And Stryff, Cracchynge Myn Here, My Chekys All Totare, Wrythynge My Fyngres For Angwysshe And Care, Watrynge The Erthe With My Byttre Salte Teres That The Crye Of My Syghes Ascended To Goddys Eres, My Knees With Myn Handys Grasped Togedyre Soore, And Yitt I Stode The Same Man I Was Afore Tyl A Depe Profounde Remembraunce Att The Laste Hadd All My Wrecchednesse Afore Myn Eyn Caste

The Aged Love What Is Practical While Impetuous Youth Longs Only For What Is Dazzling.

Each Famous Author Of Antiquity Whom I Recover Places A New Offence And Another Cause Of Dishonor To The Charge Of Earlier Generations, Who, Not Satisfied With Their Own Disgraceful Barrenness, Permitted The Fruit Of Other Minds, And The Writings That Their Ancestors Had Produced By Toil And Application, To Perish Through Insufferable Neglect. Although They Had Nothing Of Their Own To Hand Down To Those Who Were To Come After, They Robbed Posterity Of Its Ancestral Heritage.

What Name To Call Thee By, O Virgin Fair, I Know Not, For Thy Looks Are Not Of Earth And More Than Mortal Seems Thy Countenances