Youth, what man's age is like to be, doth show; We may our ends by our beginnings know.
Search not to find things too deeply hid; Nor try to know things whose knowledge is forbid.
Actions of the last age are like almanacs of the last year.
Who fears not to do ill fears the name, And free from conscience, is a slave to fame.
Such is our pride, our folly, or our fate, That few, but such as cannot write, translate.
Uncertain ways unsafest are, and doubt a greater mischief than despair.