In Hope To Merit Heaven By Making

History, With All Her Volumes Vast, Hath But One Page.

Fills The Air Around With Beauty.

All Tragedies Are Finished By A Death, All Comedies Are Ended By A Marriage.

Gone, Glimmering Through The Dream Of Things That Were.

Time Strips Our Illusions Of Their Hue, And One By One In Turn, Some Grand Mistake Casts Off Its Bright Skin Yearly Like The Snake.