More matter with less art.

To lapse in fulness Is sorer than to lie for need, and falsehood Is worse in kings than beggars.

So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

Being holiday, the beggar's shop is shut.

Let us be Diana's foresters, gentlemen of the shade, minions of the moon

From women's eyes this doctrine I derive: They sparkle still the right Promethean fire; They are the books, the arts, the academes, That show, contain and nourish all the world.

. . from this moment The very firstlings of my heart shall be The firstlings of my hand. And even now, To crown my thoughts with acts, be it thought and done.