He who grown aged in this world of woe, In deeds, not years, piercing the depths of life, So that no wonder waits him.
Like to the apples on the Dead Sea's shore, All ashes to the taste.
The poor dog, in life the firmest friend. The first to welcome, foremost to defend.
And gentle winds and waters near, make music to the lonely ear.
When Bishop Berkeley said "there was no matter." And proved it--'t was no matter what he said.
Nothing so fretful, so despicable as a Scribbler, see what I am, and what a parcel of Scoundrels I have brought about my ears, and what language I have been obliged to treat them with to deal with them in their own way; - all this comes of Authorship.