John Milton

A crown
Golden in show, is but a wreath of thorns,
Bring dangers, troubles, cares, and sleepless read more

A crown
Golden in show, is but a wreath of thorns,
Bring dangers, troubles, cares, and sleepless nights
To him who wears the regal diadem.

Ev'n them who kept thy truth so pure of old,
When all our fathers worshipp'd stocks and stones,
read more

Ev'n them who kept thy truth so pure of old,
When all our fathers worshipp'd stocks and stones,
Forget not.

Adam, well may we labour, still to dress
This garden, still to tend plant, herb, and flower.

Adam, well may we labour, still to dress
This garden, still to tend plant, herb, and flower.

The unsunn'd heaps
Of miser's treasures.

The unsunn'd heaps
Of miser's treasures.

Now conscience wakes despair
That slumber'd, wakes the bitter memory
Of what he was, what is, and read more

Now conscience wakes despair
That slumber'd, wakes the bitter memory
Of what he was, what is, and what must be
Worse; of worse deeds worse sufferings must ensue!