God Never Made His Work For Man

Sweet Is Pleasure After Pain.

All Things Are Subject To Decay And When Fate Summons, Monarchs Must Obey.

Calms Appear, When Storms Are Past; Love Will Have His Hour At Last: Nature Is My Kindly Care; Mars Destroys, And I Repair; Take Me, Take Me, While You May, Venus Comes Not Ev'ry Day.

So Poetry, Which Is In Oxford Made An Art, In London Only Is A Trade.

Fortune's Unjust; She Ruins Oft The Brave, And Him Who Should Be Victor, Makes The Slave.