"The bitter ash hath a sweeter tinge
than kindling branch, yet intermix't
with Time drawn up and those still yet
to enter the mouths and eyes of men!
O, for better be the thornéd seed
than nigh ripe fruit nigh too sweet.
For the barren womb may an Isaac bear,
leaves of yesteryear the soil prepare.
Again, fruit to rot n' rot to fruit
make e'er an interplay of finite suite."