I pray, what flowers are these? The pansy this, O, that's for lover's thoughts.

As night the life-inclining stars best shows, So lives obscure the starriest souls disclose.

Virtue is not malicious; wrong done her Is righted even when men grant they err.

Tis immortality to die aspiring, As if a man were taken quick to heaven.

And let a scholar all earth's volumes carry, he will be but a walking dictionary: a mere articulate clock.

Man is a torch borne in the wind; a dream But of a shadow, summed with all his substance.

News as wholesome as the morning air.