Art Can Do Much, But

I Prize Thy Love More Than Whole Mines Of Gold Or All The Riches That The East Doth Hold.

When I Behold The Heavens As In Their Prime, And Then The Earth (though Old) Still Clad In Green, The Stones And Trees, Insensible Of Time, Nor Age Nor Wrinkle On Their Front Are Seen

O Time The Fatal Wrack Of Mortal Things, That Draws Oblivion's Curtains Over Kings; Their Sumptuous Monuments, Men Know Them Not, Their Names Without A Record Are Forgot, Their Parts, Their Ports, Their Pomps All Laid In Th' Dust Nor Wit Nor Gold, Nor Buildings Scape Time's Rust; But He Whose Name Is Graved In The White Stone Shall Last And Shine When All Of These Are Gone.

Art Can Do Much, But This Maxim's Most Sure/a Weak Or Wounded Brain Admits No Cure.

There Is No Object That We See; No Action That We Do; No Good That We Enjoy; No Evil That We Feel, Or Fear, But We May Make Some Spiritual Advantage Of All: And He That Makes Such Improvement Is Wise, As Well As Pious.