No louder shrieks to pitying heaven are cast, When husbands or lap-dogs breathe their last.
The flower's are gone when the Fruits appear to ripen.
Fame, wealth, and honour! what are you to Love?
Drink is the feast of reason and the flow of soul.
The young disease, that must subdue at length, Grows with his growth, and strengthens with his strength.
Who taught that heaven-directed spire to rise?