Who reproves the lame must go upright. - Samuel Daniel

And who (in time) knows whither we may vent
The treasure of our tongue? To what strange shores
This gain of our best glory shall be sent
T' enrich unknowing nations with our stores?
What worlds in the yet unformed Occident
May come refin'd with th' accents that are ours?

Care-charmer Sleep, son of the sable Night,
Brother to Death, in silent darkness born.

Thou may’st repent that thou hast scorn’d my tears,
When Winter snows upon thy sable hairs.