As To Posterity, I May Ask What

In Buskined Measures Move Pale Grief And Pleasing Pain, With Horror, Tyrant Of The Throbbing Breast.

I Shall Be But A Shrimp Of An Author.

And Hie Him Home, At Evening's Close, To Sweet Repast And Calm Repose.

Not All That Tempts Your Wandering Eyes And Heedless Hearts, Is Lawful Prize; Nor All That Glisters Gold.

Bright-eyed Fancy, Hov'ring O'er, Scatters From Her Pictured Urn Thoughts That Breathe And Words That Burn.