At Ev'ry Word A Reputation Dies.

To Observations Which Ourselves We Make, We Grow More Partial For Th' Observer's Sake.

Is That A Birthday? 'tis, Alas! Too Clear; 'tis But The Funeral Of The Former Year.

For What I Have Publish'd, I Can Only Hope To Be Pardon'd; But For What I Have Burned, I Deserve To Be Prais'd.

Now Warm In Love, Now With'ring In My Bloom Lost In A Convent's Solitary Gloom!

Expression Is The Dress Of Thought.