Vile man, begot of clay, and born of dust

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.

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

The rose within herself her sweetness closed.

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

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

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