If One Must Be Rejected, One Succeed,

Ill News Is Wing'd With Fate, And Flies Apace.

Dreams Are But Interludes, Which Fancy Makes; When Monarch Reason Sleeps, This Mimic Wakes.

Beauty, Like Ice, Our Footing Does Betray; Who Can Tread Sure On The Smooth, Slippery Way: Pleased With The Surface, We Glide Swiftly On, And See The Dangers That We Cannot Shun.

And Love's The Noblest Frailty Of The Mind.

None But The Brave Deserve The Fair.