Good Luck Befriend Thee, Son; For At

With Cowslips Wan That Hang The Pensive Head, And Every Flower That Sad Embroidery Wears.

O Fleeting Joys Of Paradise, Dear Bought With Lasting Woes!

Ornate Rhetorick Taught Out Of The Rule Of Plato.... To Which Poetry Would Be Made Subsequent, Or Indeed Rather Precedent, As Being Less Suttle And Fine, But More Simple, Sensuous, And Passionate.

Or Bid The Soul Of Orpheus Sing Such Notes As, Warbled To The String, Drew Iron Tears Down Pluto's Cheek.

Who Knows Not Circe, The Daughter Of The Sun , Whose Charmed Cup Whoever Tasted, Lost His Upright Shape, And Downward Fell Into A Groveling Swine?