A saint in crape is twice a saint in lawn.
In death a hero, as in life a friend!
All nature is but art unknown to thee.
What woeful stuff this madrigal would be, In some starved hackney sonneteer, or me! But let a lord once own the happy lines, How the wit brightens! how the style refines!
Is that a birthday? 'tis, alas! too clear; 'Tis but the funeral of the former year.
The difference is too nice - Where ends the virtue or begins the vice.