I was not born under a rhyming planet, nor I cannot woo to in festival terms.
God shall be my hope, my stay, my guide and lantern to my feet.
O that my tongue were in the thunder's mouth! Then with passion would I shake the world.
No reckoning made, but sent to my account with all my imperfections on my head.
I can again thy former light restore, Should I repent me: but once put out thy light, Thou cunning'st pattern of excelling nature, I know not where is that Promethean heat That can thy light relume.
Let me be ignorant, and in nothing good, but graciously to know I am no better.