Man, Like The Generous Vine, Supported Lives;

Who Dies In Youth And Vigour, Dies The Best.

Thus Unlamented Pass The Proud Away, The Gaze Of Fools And Pageant Of A Day; So Perish All, Whose Breast Ne'er Learn'd To Glow For Others' Good, Or Melt At Others' Woe.

Where Grows?--where Grows It Not? If Vain Our Toil, We Ought To Blame The Culture, Not The Soil.

On Her White Breast A Sparkling Cross She Wore, Which Jews Might Kiss And Infidels Adore.

O Love! For Sylvia Let Me Gain The Prize, And Make My Tongue Victorious As Her Eyes.