Once Read Thy Own Breast Right, And

Fortime, Not Corydon, Hath Conquered Thee.

Nor Bring, To See Me Cease To Live, Some Doctor Full Of Phrase And Fame, To Shake His Sapient Head, And Give The Ill He Cannot Cure A Name.

Man Errs Not That He Deems His Welfare His True Aim, He Errs Because He Dreams The World Does But Exist That Welfare To Bestow.

Youth Dreams A Bliss On This Side Of Death. It Dreams A Rest, If Not More Deep, More Grateful Than This Marble Sleep; It Hears A Voice Within It Tell: Calm's Not Life's Crown, Though Calm Is Well. 'tis All Perhaps Which Man Acquires, But 'tis Not What Our Youth Desires.

Spare Me The Whispering, Crowded Room, The Friends Who Come And Gape And Go, The Ceremonious Air Of Gloom - All, Which Makes Death A Hideous Show.