But fate ordains that dearest friends must part.

With fame, in just proportion, envy grows.

They most the world enjoy who least admire.

Creation sleeps! 'T is as the general pulse Of life stood still, and Nature made a pause,- An awful pause! prophetic of her end.

We see time's furrows on another's brow, And death intrench'd, preparing his assault; How few themselves in that just mirror see!

Tis immortality, 'tis that alone, Amid life's pains, abasements, emptiness, The soul can comfort, elevate, and fill. That only, and that amply this performs.

Titles are marks of honest men, and wise; The fool or knave that wears a title lies.