Where Peace And Rest Can Never Dwell,

Some Say No Evil Thing That Walks By Night, In Fog Or Fire, By Lake Or Moorish Fen, Blue Meagre Hag, Or Stubborn Unlaid Ghost That Breaks His Magic Chains At Curfew Time, No Goblin, Or Swart Fairy Of The Mine, Hath Hurtful Power O'er True Virginity.

Alas! What Boots It With Uncessant Care To Tend The Homely Slighted Shepherd's Trade, And Strictly Meditate The Thankless Muse; Were It Not Better Done As Others Use, To Sport With Amaryllis In The Shade, Or With The Tangles Of Neaera's Hair? Fame Is The Spur That The Clear Spirit Doth Raise (that Last Infirmity Of Noble Mind) To Scorn Delights, And Live Laborious Days; But The Fair Guerdon When We Hope To Find, And Think To Burst Out Into Sudden Blaze, Comes The Blind Fury With Th'abhorred Shears, And Slits The Thin-spun Life.

But O Yet More Miserable! Myself My Sepulchre, A Moving Grave.

Fame Is The Spur That The Clear Spirit Doth Raise

Long Is The Way And Hard, That Out Of Hell Leads Up To Light.