You should have a softer pillow than my heart.

There is a tear for all who die, A mourner o'er the humblest grave.

A drop of ink may make a million think.

Then farewell, Horace; whom I hated so, Not for thy faults, but mine.

Though the day of my Destiny 's over, And the star of my Fate hath declined, Thy soft heart refused to discover The faults which so many could find.

I should like to know who has been carried off, except poor dear me - I have been more ravished myself than anybody since the Trojan war.

Maidens, like moths, are ever caught, by glare, And Mammon wins his way where seraphs might despair.