Exercise Thy Lasting Youth Defends.

Fools May Our Scorn, Not Envy, Raise. For Envy Is A Kind Of Praise.

Whence Is Thy Learning? Hath Thy Toil O'er Books Consumed The Midnight Oil?

From Kings To Cobblers 'tis The Same; Bad Servants Wound Their Masters' Fame.

Why Is The Hearse With Scutcheons Blazon'd Round, And With The Nodding Plume Of Ostrich Crown'd? No; The Dead Know It Not, Nor Profit Gain; It Only Serves To Prove The Living Vain.

How, Like A Moth, The Simple Maid Still Plays Around The Flame!