The Object Of Art Is To Give

I Can Again Thy Former Light Restore, Should I Repent Me: But Once Put Out Thy Light, Thou Cunning'st Pattern Of Excelling Nature, I Know Not Where Is That Promethean Heat That Can Thy Light Relume.

Let Still Woman Take An Elder Than Herself: So Wears She To Him, So Sways She Level In Her Husband's Heart, For, Boy, However We Do Praise Ourselves, Our Fancies Are More Giddy And Unfirm, More Longing, Wavering, Sooner To Be Lost And Warn, Than Women's Are.

Bow, Stubborn Knees, And, Heart With Strings Of Steel, Be Soft As Sinews Of The New-born Babe. All Many Be Well.

And, Looking On It With Lack-lustre Eye, Says Very Wisely, "it Is Ten O'clock: Thus We May See," Quoth He, "how The World Wags."

There's Such Divinity Doth Hedge A King That Treason Can But Peep To What It Would.