On Her White Breast A Sparkling Cross

Virtue She Finds Too Painful An Endeavour, Content To Dwell In Decencies For Ever.

It Is Sure The Hardest Science To Forget!

How Happy Is The Blameless Vestal's Lot? The World Forgetting, By The World Forgot.

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

See The Wild Waste Of All-devouring Years! How Rome Her Own Sad Sepulchre Appears, With Nodding Arches, Broken Temples Spread! The Very Tombs Now Vanish'd Like Their Dead!