And Angling Too, That Solitary Vice, What

What Is The End Of Fame? 'tis But To Fill A Certain Portion Of Uncertain Paper: Some Liken It To Climbing Up A Hill, Whose Summit, Like All Hills, Is Lost In Vapour: For This Men Write, Speak, Preach, And Heroes Kill, And Bards Burn What They Call Their "midnight Taper," To Have, When The Original Is Dust, A Name, A Wretched Picture, And Worse Bust.

What Want These Outlaws Conquerors Should Have But History's Purchased Page To Call Them Great?

The Cold, The Changed, Perchance The Dead, Anew, The Mourn'd, The Loved, The Lost,-too Many, Yet How Few!

Dim With The Mist Of Years, Gray Flits The Shade Of Power.

If I Could Always Read, I Should Never Feel The Want Of Company.