And live like Nature's bastards, not her sons.

Let none henceforth seek needless cause to approve The faith they owe; when earnestly they seek Such proof, conclude, they then begin to fail.

But pain is perfect misery, the worst Of evils, and excessive, overturns All patience.

Our torments also may in length of time Become our elements, these piercing fires As soft as now severe, our temper changed Into their temper.

Did I request thee, Maker, from my clay To mould me man? Did I solicit thee From darkness to promote me?

Gratitude bestows reverence, allowing us to encounter everyday epiphanies.

And add to these retired Leisure, That in trim gardens take his pleasure.