I Would Rather Be Tied To The

Young People Are Thoughtless As A Rule.

Close To The Gates A Spacious Garden Lies, From The Storms Defended And Inclement Skies; Four Acres Was The Allotted Space Of Ground, Fenc'd With A Green Enclosure All Around. Tall Thriving Trees Confessed The Fruitful Mold: The Reddening Apple Ripens Here To Gold, Here The Blue Fig With Luscious Juice Overflows, With Deeper Red The Full Pomegranate Glows, The Branch Here Bends Beneath The Weighty Pear, And Verdant Olives Flourish Round The Year.

Is He Not Sacred, Even To The Gods, The Wandering Man Who Comes In Weariness?

Better To Flee From Death Than Feel Its Grip.

Nothing Shall I, While Sane, Compare With A Friend.