Fix'd Like A Plant On His Peculiar

I Was Not Born For Courts And Great Affairs, But I Pay My Debts, Believe And Say My Prayers.

Expression Is The Dress Of Thought.

I Am Satisfied To Trifle Away My Time, Rather Than Let It Stick By Me.

Nor Public Flame, Nor Private, Dares To Shine; Nor Human Spark Is Left, Nor Glimpse Divine! Lo! Thy Dread Empire, Chaos! Is Restored; Light Dies Before Thy Uncreating Word: Thy Hand, Great Anarch! Lets The Curtain Fall; And Universal Darkness Buries All.

What Then Remains, But Well Our Power To Use, And Keep Good-humor Still Whate'er We Lose? And Trust Me, Dear, Good-humor Can Prevail, When Airs, And Flights, And Screams, And Scolding Fail.