Music, The Mosaic Of The Air.

The World In All Doth But Two Nations Bear- The Good, The Bad; And These Mixed Everywhere.

And Now, When I Have Summed Up All My Store, Thinking (so I Myself Deceive) So Rich A Chaplet Thence To Weave As Never Yet The King Of Glory Wore, Alas! I Find The Serpent Old, That, Twining In His Speckled Breast, About The Flowers Disguised Does Fold With Wreaths Of Fame And Interest.

Gather The Flowers, But Spare The Buds.

How Vainly Men Themselves Amaze, / To Win The Palm, The Oak, Or Bays; / And Their Incessant Labours See / Crowned From Some Single Herb Or Tree.

Among The Blind The One-eyed Blinkard Reigns