Beware Of The Fury Of The Patient

Even Victors Are By Victories Undone.

For Thee, Sweet Month; The Groves Green Liveries Wear. If Not The First, The Fairest Of The Year; For Thee The Graces Lead The Dancing Hours, And Nature's Ready Pencil Paints The Flowers. When Thy Short Reign Is Past, The Feverish Sun The Sultry Tropic Fears, And Moves More Slowly On.

The Fates But Only Spin The Coarser Clue; The Finest Of The Wool Is Left For You.

Ah, How Sweet It Is To Love! Ah, How Gay Is Young Desire! And What Pleasing Pains We Prove When We First Approach Love's Fire!

He Who Proposes To Be An Author Should First Be A Student.