In A Sadly Pleasing Strain, Let The

Then From The Mint Walks Forth The Man Of Rhyme, Happy To Catch Me, Just At Dinner-time.

Whether The Charmer Sinner It, Or Saint It, If Folly Grow Romantic, I Must Paint It.

Bear, Like The Turk, No Brother Near The Throne.

Where London's Column, Pointing At The Skies, Like A Tall Bully, Lifts The Head, And Lies.

What Is Fame? A Fancied Life In Others' Breath.