Absence - That Common Cure Of Love.

I Suppose We Shall Soon Travel By Air-vessels; Make Air Instead Of Sea Voyages; And At Length Find Our Way To The Moon, In Spite Of The Want Of Atmosphere.

For Pleasures Past I Do Not Grieve, Nor Perils Gathering Near; My Greatest Grief Is That I Leave Nothing That Claims A Tear.

'tis Very Certain The Desire Of Life Prolongs It.

For Through The South The Custom Still Commands The Gentleman To Kiss The Lady's Hands.

Old Man! 'tis Not Difficult To Die.