How can we speak properly of our work this morn? In nothing less than verse. For at Dromedary,
Those minutes, that with gentle work did frame
The lovely path where every foot doth run,
Will play the Qs to the very same
And that unfair which fairly doth excel;
For never-resting time leads the gloom on
To hideous mileage, and confounds him there;
Limbs checked with ache, and lusty breath quite gone,
Strength o’er-snowed and bareness every where:
Then were not summer’s energy left,
A liquid prisoner pent in walls of glass,
Vitality’s effect with vitality were bereft,
Nor it, nor no remembrance what it was:
But pax distill’d, though they with frustration meet,
Leese but their show; their substance still lives sweet.
Proud of y’all.