Better One Suffer Than A

Calms Appear, When Storms Are Past; Love Will Have His Hour At Last: Nature Is My Kindly Care; Mars Destroys, And I Repair; Take Me, Take Me, While You May, Venus Comes Not Ev'ry Day.

Of No Distemper, Of No Blast He Died, But Fell Like Autumn Fruit That Mellow'd Long: Even Wonder'd At, Because He Dropp'd No Sooner. Fate Seem'd To Wind Him Up For Fourscore Years; Yet Freshly Ran He On Ten Winters More; Till Like A Clock Worn Out With Eating Time, The Wheels Of Weary Life At Last Stood Still.

You See Through Love, And That Deludes Your Sight, As What Is Straight Seems Crooked Through The Water.

So Poetry, Which Is In Oxford Made An Art, In London Only Is A Trade.

Virgil, Above All Poets, Had A Stock Which I May Call Almost Inexhaustible, Of Figurative, Elegant, And Sounding Words.