Youth is not rich in time; it may be poor; Part with it as with money, sparing; pay No moment but in purchase of its worth, And what it's worth, ask death-beds; they can tell.

Nothing in Nature, much less conscious being, Was e'er created solely for itself.

Each moment has its sickle, emulous Of Time's enormous scythe, whose ample sweep Strikes empires from the root.

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

Who, for the poor renown of being smart, Would leave a sting within a brother's heart?

Who gives an empire, by the gift defeats All end of giving; and procures contempt Instead of gratitude.

Early, bright, transient, chaste as morning dew, She sparkled, was exhaled, and went to heaven.