Search not to find things too deeply hid; Nor try to know things whose knowledge is forbid.
We are never like angels till our passion dies.
Youth, what man's age is like to be, doth show; We may our ends by our beginnings know.
Who fears not to do ill fears the name, And free from conscience, is a slave to fame.
You prove but too clearly that seeking to know Is too frequently learning to doubt.
Such is our pride, our folly, or our fate, That few, but such as cannot write, translate.