Trust more to letters carved fair on some frostiness
Than to this brittle world’s empty untrustiness.
False in her honors, in semblance of purity,
Never as yet had she time for security.
More should be trusted to glass, which is treacherous,
Than to Earth’s happiness wretched and venturous—
Filled with false vanities, lured by false madnesses,
Worn with false knowledges, sick of false gladnesses.
Where now is Solomon, once so pre-eminent?
Where is that Samson, so valiantly prominent?