On The Tawny Sands And

Who Knows Not Circe, The Daughter Of The Sun , Whose Charmed Cup Whoever Tasted, Lost His Upright Shape, And Downward Fell Into A Groveling Swine?

Among The Writers Of All Ages, Some Deserve Fame, And Have It; Others Neither Have Nor Deserve It; Some Have It, Not Deserving It; Others, Though Deserving It, Yet Totally Miss It, Or Have It Not Equal To Their Deserts.

Extol Not Riches Then, The Toil Of Fools, The Wise Man's Cumbrance, If Not Snare, More Apt To Slacken Virtue, And Abate Her Edge, Than Prompt Her To Do Aught May Merit Praise.

And Storied Windows Richly Dight, Casting A Dim Religious Light.

No Date Prefixed Directs Me In The Starry Rubric Set.