Bets At First Were Fool-traps, Where The

Blown Roses Hold Their Sweetness To The Last.

Satire Is A Kind Of Poetry In Which Human Vices Are Reprehended.

Ever A Glutton, At Another's Cost, But In Whose Kitchen Dwells Perpetual Frost.

How Blessed Is He, Who Leads A Country Life, Unvex'd With Anxious Cares, And Void Of Strife! Who Studying Peace, And Shunning Civil Rage, Enjoy'd His Youth, And Now Enjoys His Age: All Who Deserve His Love, He Makes His Own; And, To Be Lov'd Himself, Needs Only To Be Known.

…so When The Last And Dreadful Hour This Crumbling Pageant Shall Devour, The Trumpet Shall Be Heard On High, The Dead Shall Live, The Living Die, And Music Shall Untune The Sky