In heaven I yearn for knowledge, account all else inanity; On earth I confess an itch for the praise of fools - that's vanity

Best be yourself, imperial, plain, and true.

I see my way as birds their trackless way. I shall arrive,- what time, what circuit first, I ask not; but unless God send his hail Or blinding fire-balls, sleet or stifling snow, In some time, his good time, I shall arrive: He guides me and the bird. In his good time.

I hear you reproach, "But delay was best, For their end was a crime." Oh, a crime will do As well, I reply, to serve for a test As a virtue golden through and through, Sufficient to vindicate itself And prove its worth at a moment's view! . . . . . . Let a man contend to the uttermost For his life's set prize, be it what it will! The counter our lovers staked was lost As surely as if it were lawful coin; And the sin I impute to each frustrate ghost Is-the unlit lamp and the ungirt loin, Though the end in sight was a vice, I say.

And I have written three books on the soul, Proving absurd all written hitherto, And putting us to ignorance again.

Measure your mind's height by the shade it casts.

Any nose may ravage with impunity a rose.