Ambition is like love, impatientBoth of delays and rivals.

Such is our pride, our folly, or our fate,That few but such as cannot write, translate.

Nor ought a genius less than his that writAttempt translation.

Books should to one of these four ends conduce,For wisdom, piety, delight, or use.

Youth, what man's age is like to be doth show,We may our ends by our beginnings know.

Search not to find what lies too deeply hid,Nor to know things, whose knowledge is forbid.

Though with those streams he no resemblance hold,Whose foam is amber and their gravel gold;His genuine and less guilty wealth t' explore,Search not his bottom, but survey his shore.

Oh, could I flow like thee, and make thy streamMy great example, as it is my theme!Though deep, yet clear; though gentle, yet not dull;Strong without rage; without o'erflowing, full.