Tis pleasant purchasing our fellow-creatures; And all are to be sold, if you consider Their passions, and are dext'rous; some by features Are brought up, others by a warlike leader; Some by a place--as tend their years or natures; The most by ready cash--but all have prices, From crowns to kicks, according to their vices.

This is to be along; this, this is solitude!

Who tracks the steps of glory to the grave?

And wrinkles, the damned democrats, won't flatter.

'Tis sweet to know there is an eye will mark our coming, and look brighter when we come.

But stories somehow lengthen when begun.

Then stirs the feeling infinite, so felt In solitude, where we are least alone.