Implores The Passing Tribute Of A Sigh.

And Weep The More, Because I Weep In Vain.

The Language Of The Age Is Never The Language Of Poetry, Except Among The French, Whose Verse, Where The Thought Or Image Does Not Support It, Differs In Nothing From Prose.

Can Honor's Voice Provoke The Silent Dust, Or Flattery Soothe The Dull, Cold Ear Of Death?

What Female Heart Can Gold Despise? What Cat 's Averse To Fish?

T'was Spring, T'was Summer, All Was Gay Now Autumn Bears A Cloud Brow The Flowers Of Spring Are Swept Way And Summer Fruits Desert The Bough