Critics Are Already Made.

Oh! Snatched Away In Beauty's Bloom, On Thee Shall Press No Ponderous Tomb; But On Thy Turf Shall Roses Rear Their Leaves, The Earliest Of The Year.

By Headless Charles See Heartless Henry Lies.

There's Not A Joy The World Can Give Like That It Takes Away.

The Sight Of Blood To Crowds Begets The Thirst Of More, As The First Wine-cup Leads To The Long Revel.

My Boat Is On The Shore, And My Bark Is On The Sea.