Forget Thyself To Marble.

For To Interpose A Little Ease, Let Our Frail Thoughts Dally With False Surmise.

Sense Of Pleasure We May Well Spare Out Of Life Perhaps, And Not Repine, But Live Content, Which Is The Calmest Life; But Pain Is Perfect Misery, The Worst Of Evils, And Excessive, Overturns All Patience.

Virtue That Wavers Is Not Virtue.

Ease Would Recant Vows Made In Pain, As Violent And Void.

A Thousand Fantasies Begin To Throng Into My Memory, Of Calling Shapes, And Beckoning Shadows Dire, And Airy Tongues That Syllable Men's Names On Sands And Shores And Desert Wildernesses