Thus let me live, unseen, unknown, Thus unlamented let me die, Steal from the world, and not a stone Tell where I lie.

Wise wretch! with pleasures too refined to please, With too much spirit to be e'er at ease, With too much quickness ever to be taught, With too much thinking to have common thought: You purchase pain with all that joy can give, And die of nothing but a rage to live.

Chaste to her husband, frank to all beside, A teeming mistress, but a barren bride.

In lazy apathy let stoics boast, their virtue fix'd: 't is fix'd as in a frost; contracted all, retiring to the breast; but strength of mind is exercise, not rest.

But blind to former as to future fate, what mortal knows his pre-existent state?

Words are like Leaves; and where they most abound, Much Fruit of Sense beneath is rarely found.

Those oft are stratagems which errors seem Nor is it Homer nods, but we that dream.