O poverty, chief of the heavenly brood

The throne of Cupid had an easy stair; His bark is fit to sail with every wind; The breach he makes no wisdom can repair.

Better sit still, men say, than rise to fall.

Aurora bright her crystal gates unbarred, And bridegroom-like forth stept the glorious sun.

The golden sun rose from the silver wave, And with his beams enamelled every green.

The rose within herself her sweetness closed.

Patience, a praise; forbearance is a treasure; Sufferance, an angel is; a monster, rage.