If can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings - nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes or friends can hurt you,
If all men count on you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds words of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son!

-Sir Francis Bacon-
My love is like to ice, and I to fire;
How comes it then that this her cold so great
Is not dissolved throught my so hot desire,
But harder grows the more I entreat?
Or how comes it that my exceeding heat
Is not allayed by her heart-frozen cold,
But that I burn much more in boiling sweat,
And feel my flames augmented manifold?
What more miraculous thing may be told,
That fire, which all things melts, should harden ice,
And ice, which is congealed with senseless cold,
Should kindle fire by wonderful device?
Such is the power of love in gentle mind,
That is can alter all the course of kind.
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