But Monument Themselves Memorials Need.

Who Often Reads, Will Sometimes Wish To Write.

I Paint The Cot, As Truth Will Paint It, And As Bards Will Not.

With Awe, Around These Silent Walks I Tread; These Are The Lasting Mansions Of The Dead.

Who Calls A Lawyer Rogue, May Find, Too Lateupon One Of These Depends His Whole Estate.

Say, Ye Oppress'd By Some Fantastic Woes, Some Jarring Nerve That Baffles Your Repose; Who Press The Downy Couch, While Slaves Advance With Timid Eye, To Read The Distant Glance; Who With Sad Prayers The Weary Doctor Tease, To Name The Nameless Ever-new Disease; Who With Mock Patience Dire Complaints Endure, Which Real Pain And That Alone Can Cure; How Would Ye Bear In Real Pain To Lie, Despised, Neglected, Left Alone To Die? How Would Ye Bear To Draw Your Latest Breath, Where All That's Wretched Paves The Way For Death?