How Ill White Hairs Become A Fool

The Happiest Youth, Viewing His Progress Through, What Perils Past, What Crosses To Ensue, Would Shut The Book, And Sit Him Down And Die.

The End Crowns All, And That Old Common Arbitrator, Time, Will One Day End It.

Cease To Lament For That Thou Canst Not Help; And Study Help For That Which Thou Lamentest.

Graze On My Lips; And If Those Hills Be Dry, Stray Lower, Where The Pleasant Fountains Lie.

Nature, As It Grows Again Toward Earth, Is Fashioned For The Journey, Dull And Heavy.