Sweet instinct leaps; slow reason feebly climbs.

Groan under gold, yet weep for want of bread.

The bell strikes One. We take no note of time But from its loss. To give it then a tongue Is wise in man. As if an angel spoke, I feel the solemn sound. If heard aright, It is the knell of my departed hours.

I've known my lady (for she loves a tune) For fevers take an opera in June: And, though perhaps you'll think the practice bold, A midnight park is sov'reign for a cold.

Ocean into tempest wrought, To waft a feather, or to drown a fly.

We bleed, we tremble; we forget, we smile - The mind turns fool, before the cheek is dry

Accept a miracle, instead of wit See two dull lines, with Stanhope's pencil writ.