Fools Admire, But Men Of Sense Approve.

Time Conquers All, And We Must Time Obey.

Die Of A Rose In Aromatic Pain.

Our Rural Ancestors, With Little Blest, Patient Of Labor When The End Was Rest, Indulged The Day That Housed Their Annual Grain, With Feasts, And Off'rings, And A Thankful Strain.

What Conscience Dictates To Be Done, Or Warns Me Not To Do; This Teach Me More Than Hell To Shun, That More Than Heav'n Pursue.

Choose A Firm Cloud Before It Fall, And In It Catch, Ere She Change, The Cynthia Of This Minute.