LIFE
And struggle slacker, but to prove,As hopelessly as I,How many the fictitious shoresBefore the harbor lie.
LXXIV
UNTO my books so good to turnFar ends of tired days;It half endears the abstinence,And pain is missed in praise.
As flavors cheer retarded guestsWith banquetings to be,So spices stimulate the timeTill my small library.
It may be wilderness without,Far feet of failing men,But holiday excludes the night,And it is bells within.
I thank these kinsmen of the shelf;Their countenances blandEnamour in prospective,And satisfy, obtained.
LXXV
THIS merit hath the worst,—It cannot be again.When Fate hath taunted lastAnd thrown her furthest stone,
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