The Flower's Are Gone When The Fruits

Our Rural Ancestors, With Little Blest, Patient Of Labor When The End Was Rest, Indulged The Day That Housed Their Annual Grain, With Feasts, And Off'rings, And A Thankful Strain.

A Perfect Woman's But A Softer Man.

Absent Or Dead, Still Let A Friend Be Dear.

While Pensive Poets Painful Vigils Keep, Sleepless Themselves, To Give Their Readers Sleep.

True Self-love And Social Are The Same.