Where It Concerns Himself, Who's

Wine It Is The Milk Of Venus, And The Poet's Horse Accounted: Ply It And You All Are Mounted.

No Glass Renders A Man's Form Or Likeness So True As His Speech.

I Know No Disease Of The Soul But Ignorance, A Pernicious Evil, The Darkener Of Man's Life, The Disturber Of His Reason, And Common Confounder Of Truth.

Follow A Shadow, It Still Flies You, Seem To Fly, It Will Pursue: So Court A Mistress, She Denies You; Let Her Alone, She Will Court You. Say Are Not Women Truly, Then, Styled But The Shadows Of Us Men?

I Have Been At My Book; And Am Now Past The Craggy Paths Of Study, And Come To The Flowery Plains Of Honour And Reputation