And those who saw, it did surprise, Such drops could fall from human eyes.

He had kept The whiteness of his soul, and thus men o'er him wept.

Muse of the many twinkling feet, whose charms are now extending up from legs to arms.

I should be very willing to redress men wrongs, and rather check than punish crimes, had not Cervantes, in that all too true tale of Quixote, shown how all such efforts fail.

But 'why then publish?' There are no rewards Of fame or profit when the world grows weary. I ask in turn why do you play at cards? Why drink? Why read? To make some hour less dreary. It occupies me to turn back regards On what I've seen or pondered, sad or cheery, And what I write I cast upon the stream To swim or sink. I have had at least my dream.

I depart, Whither I know not; but the hour's gone by When Albion's lessening shores could grieve or glad mine eye.

Her great merit is finding out mine; there is nothing so amiable as discernment.