While I Live, No Rich Or Noble

Let Opening Roses Knotted Oaks Adorn, And Liquid Amber Drop From Every Thorn.

A Perfect Judge Will Read Each Word Of Wit With The Same Spirit That Its Author Writ.

Nor In The Critic Let The Man Be Lost.

Behold The Child, By Nature's Kindly Law Pleased With A Rattle, Tickled With A Straw.

Now Hollow Fires Burn Out To Black, And Lights Are Fluttering Low: Square Your Shoulders, Lift Your Pack And Leave Your Friends And Go. O Never Fear, Lads, Naught's To Dread, Look Not To Left Nor Right: In All The Endless Road You Tread There's Nothing But The Night.