He Tried The Luxury Of Doing Good.

Feel You The Barren Flattery Of A Rhyme? Can Poets Soothe You, When You Pine For Bread, By Winding Myrtle Round Your Ruin'd Shed?

Experience Finds Few Of The Scenes That Lively Hope Designs.

Say, Ye Oppress'd By Some Fantastic Woes, Some Jarring Nerve That Baffles Your Repose; Who Press The Downy Couch, While Slaves Advance With Timid Eye, To Read The Distant Glance; Who With Sad Prayers The Weary Doctor Tease, To Name The Nameless Ever-new Disease; Who With Mock Patience Dire Complaints Endure, Which Real Pain And That Alone Can Cure; How Would Ye Bear In Real Pain To Lie, Despised, Neglected, Left Alone To Die? How Would Ye Bear To Draw Your Latest Breath, Where All That's Wretched Paves The Way For Death?

Wine, Like The Rising Sun, Possession Gains, And Drives The Mist Of Dullness From The Brains, The Gloomy Vapor From The Spirit Flies, And Views Of Gaiety And Gladness Rise.

Let's Learn To Live, For We Must Die Alone.