Let Opening Roses Knotted Oaks Adorn, And

But Those Who Cannot Write, And Those Who Can, All Rhyme, And Scrawl, And Scribble, To A Man.

The Enormous Faith Of Many Made For One.

If, Presume Not To God To Scan; The Proper Study Of Mankind Is Man. Plac'd On This Isthmus Of A Middle State, A Being Darkly Wise, And Rudely Great.

Some Place The Bliss In Action, Some In Ease, Those Call It Pleasure, And Contentment These.

See! From The Brake The Whirring Pheasant Springs, And Mounts Exulting On Triumphant Wings; Short Is His Joy! He Feels The Fiery Wound, Flutters In Blood, And Panting Beats The Ground.