He Made All Countries Where He Came

All The Learn'd Are Cowards By Profession.

For Secrets Are Edged Tools, And Must Be Kept From Children And From Fools.

Railing In Other Men May Be A Crime, But Ought To Pass For Mere Instinct In Him: Instinct He Follows And No Further Knows, For To Write Verse With Him Is To Transprose.

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.

The Soft Complaining Flute, In Dying Notes, Discovers The Woes Of Hopeless Lovers.