Progress shall be my work and rest
Doing what only gods can do best,
Inking choice lines of preciosity
And ever spicing their superior quality,
Till the end of my pen begins to wither
And my sweet chills turn sour or bitter!
And it shall never halt my onward progress,
And my zeal for more shall never be less.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem