A Beardless Cynic Is The

The Leaf Was Darkish, And Had Prickles On It, But In Another Country, As He Said, Bore A Bright Golden Flow'r, But Not In This Soil; Unknown, And Like Esteem'd, And The Dull Swain Treads On It Daily With His Clouted Shoon.

They Who Have Put Out The People's Eyes Reproach Them Of Their Blindness.

His Sleep Was Aery Light, From Pure Digestion Bred.

Fame Is The Spur That The Clear Spirit Doth Raise. That Last Infirmity Of Noble Mind. To Scorn Delights, And Live Laborious Days.

Imparadis'd In One Another's Arms.