For 'tis A Truth Well Known To

What Peaceful Hours I Once Enjoy'd! How Sweet Their Memory Still! But They Have Left An Aching Void The World Can Never Fill.

Is Base In Kind, And Born To Be A Slave.

All Flesh Is Grass. And All Its Glory Fades Like The Fair Flower Dishevell'd In The Wind; Riches Have Wings, And Grandeur Is A Dream; The Man We Celebrate Must Find A Tomb, And We That Worship Him, Ignoble Graves.

We Are Never More In Danger Than When We Think Ourselves Most Secure, Nor In Reality More Secure Than When We Seem To Be Most In Danger.

Manner Is All In All, Whate'er Is Writ,the Substitute For Genius, Sense, And Wit.