New Vows To Plight, And

Men's Virtues I Have Commended As Freely As I Have Taxed Their Crimes.

All, As They Say, That Glitters Is Not Gold.

For Secrets Are Edged Tools, And Must Be Kept From Children And From Fools.

For Thee, Sweet Month; The Groves Green Liveries Wear. If Not The First, The Fairest Of The Year; For Thee The Graces Lead The Dancing Hours, And Nature's Ready Pencil Paints The Flowers. When Thy Short Reign Is Past, The Feverish Sun The Sultry Tropic Fears, And Moves More Slowly On.

The Winds That Never Moderation Knew, Afraid To Blow Too Much, Too Faintly Blew; Or Out Of Breath With Joy, Could Not Enlarge Their Straighten'd Lungs Or Conscious Of Their Charge.