The Poet, gentle creature as he is, Hath, like the Lover, his unruly times; His fits when he is neither sick nor well, Though no distress be near him but his own Unmanageable thoughts.

That though the radiance which was once so bright be now forever taken from my sight. Though nothing can bring back the hour of splendor in the grass, glory in the flower. We will grieve not, rather find strength in what remains behind.

But an old age serene and bright, and lovely as a Lapland night, shall lead thee to thy grave.

For youthful faults ripe virtues shall atone.

Minds that have nothing to confer Find little to perceive.

Worse than idle is compassion if it ends in tears and sighs.

Or shipwrecked, kindles on the coast False fires, that others may be lost.