Though I Am Not Imperial,

I Pluck Up The Good Lissome Herbs Of Sentences By Pruning, Eat Them By Reading, Digest Them By Musing, And Lay Them Up At Length In The High Seat Of Memory.

If Our Web Be Framed With Rotten Handles, When Our Loom Is Well Nigh Done, Our Work Is New To Begin. God Send The Weaver True Prentices Again, And Let Them Be Denizens.

Of Myself I Must Say This, I Never Was Any Greedy, Scraping Grasper, Nor A Strait Fast-holding Prince, Nor Yet A Master; My Heart Was Never Set On Worldly Goods, But Only For My Subjects' Good.

If I Follow The Inclination Of My Nature, It Is This: Beggar-woman And Single, Far Rather Than Queen And Married.

The Doubt Of Future Foes Exiles My Present Joy.