Tis Fate That Flings The Dice, And

While I Am Compassed Round With Mirth, My Soul Lies Hid In Shades Of Grief, Whence, Like The Bird Of Night, With Half-shut Eyes, She Peeps, And Sickens At The Sight Of Day.

Thou Strong Seducer, Opportunity!

If You Are For A Merry Jaunt, I Will Try, For Once, Who Can Foot It Farthest.

The Fates But Only Spin The Coarser Clue; The Finest Of The Wool Is Left For You.

For Thee, Sweet Month; The Groves Green Liveries Wear. If Not The First, The Fairest Of The Year; For Thee The Graces Lead The Dancing Hours, And Nature's Ready Pencil Paints The Flowers. When Thy Short Reign Is Past, The Feverish Sun The Sultry Tropic Fears, And Moves More Slowly On.