Though Folly, Robed In Purple,

Amongst The Sons Of Men How Few Are Known Who Dare Be Just To Merit Not Their Own.

Who, With Tame Cowardice Familiar Grown, Would Hear My Thoughts, But Fear To Speak Their Own.

To Copy Beauty Forfeits All Pretense To Fame; To Copy Faults Is Want Of Sense

The Scots Are Poor, Cries Surly English Pride; True Is The Charge, Nor By Themselves Denied. Are They Not Then In Strictest Reason Clear, Who Wisely Come To Mend Their Fortunes Here?

Old Age, A Second Child, By Nature Curst With More And Greater Evils Than The First, Weak, Sickly, Full Of Pains: In Ev'ry Breath Railing At Life, And Yet Afraid Of Death.