How Happy Is The Blameless Vestal's Lot?

She Went From Opera, Park, Assembly, Play, To Morning Walks, And Prayers Three Hours A Day. To Part Her Time 'twixt Reading And Bohea, To Muse, And Spill Her Solitary Tea, Or O'er Cold Coffee Trifle With The Spoon, Count The Slow Clock, And Dine Exact At Noon.

In Every Work Regard The Writer's End, Since None Can Compass More Than They Intend.

O Happiness! Our Being's End And Aim! Good, Pleasure, Ease, Content! Whate'er Thy Name: That Something Still Which Prompts The Eternal Sigh, For Which We Bear To Live, Or Dare To Die.

As With Narrow-necked Bottles; The Less They Have In Them, The More Noise They Make In Pouring Out.

Authors, Like Coins, Grow Dear As They Grow Old.