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.

What know we of the Blest above but that they sing, and that they love?

A creature not too bright or good For human nature's daily food; For transient sorrows, simple wiles, Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.

The thought of our past years in me doth breed perpetual benedictions.

Me this uncharted freedom tires; I feel the weight of chance desires, My hopes no more must change their name, I long for a repose that ever is the same.

Serene will be our days, and bright and happy will our nature be, when love is an unerring light, and joy its own security.

Give all thou canst; high Heaven rejects the lore of nicely-caluculated less or more.