Poets Are Far Rarer Birds Than Kings.

Let Argument Bear No Unmusical Sound.

I Have No Urns, No Dusty Monuments; No Broken Images Of Ancestors, Wanting An Ear, Or Nose; No Forged Tales Of Long Descents, To Boast False Honors From.

The Day For Whose Returns, And Many, All These Pray; And So Do I.

Where Dost Thou Careless Lie, Buried In Ease And Sloth? Knowledge That Sleeps, Doth Die; And This Security, It Is The Common Moth, That Eats On Wits And Arts, And Oft Destroys Them Both.

Woman, The More Careful She Is About Her Face, The More Careless About Her House.