Poet and sculptor, do the work, / Nor let the modish painter shirk

I am of a healthy long lived race, and our minds improve with age.

Nor law, nor duty bade me fight, Nor public men, nor cheering crowds, A lonely impulse of delight Drove to this tumult in the clouds.

What shall I do for pretty girls Now my old bawd is dead?

Somewhere beyond the curtain Of distorting days Lives that lonely thing That shone before these eyes Targeted, trod like Spring.

Hearts with one purpose alone/Through summer and winter seem/Enchanted to a stone/To trouble the living stream.

What's memory but the ash That chokes our fires that have begun to sink?