Dreams Are But Interludes, Which Fancy Makes;

When A Man's Life Is Under Debate, The Judge Can Ne'er Too Long Deliberate.

Of No Distemper, Of No Blast He Died, But Fell Like Autumn Fruit That Mellow'd Long: Even Wonder'd At, Because He Dropp'd No Sooner. Fate Seem'd To Wind Him Up For Fourscore Years; Yet Freshly Ran He On Ten Winters More; Till Like A Clock Worn Out With Eating Time, The Wheels Of Weary Life At Last Stood Still.

Thus, While The Mute Creation Downward Bend Their Sight, And To Their Earthly Mother Ten, Man Looks Aloft; And With Erected Eyes Beholds His Own Hereditary Skies.

A Happy Genius Is The Gift Of Nature.

He Has Not Learned The First Lesson Of Life Who Does Not Every Day Surmount A Fear.