Stronger by weakness, wiser men become.
Poets lose half the praise they should have got, Could it be known what they discreetly blot.
Thrice happy is that humble pair, Beneath the level of all care! Over whose heads those arrows fly, Of sad distrust and jealousy.
Under the tropic is our language spoke, And part of Flanders hath receiv'd our yoke.
Virtue's a stronger guard than brass.
But virtue too, as well as vice, is clad in flesh and blood.