Only This I Know, That

Accuse Not Nature: She Hath Done Her Part; Do Thou But Thine.

The Hungry Sheep Look Up, And Are Not Fed, But, Swoln With Wind, And The Rank Mist They Draw, Rot Inwardly, And Foul Contagion Spread: Besides What The Grim Wolf With Privy Paw Daily Devours Apace, And Nothing Said; But That Two-handed Engine At The Door Stands Ready To Smite Once, And Smite No More.

A Poet Soaring In The High Reason Of His Fancies, With His Garland And Singing Robes About Him.

And To Thy Husband's Will Thine Shall Submit; He Over Thee Shall Rule.

Beauty Stands In The Admiration Only Of Weak Minds Led Captive.