I Am Such A Tender Ass, If

Hung Be The Heavens With Black! Yield, Day, To Night!

O! For A Muse Of Fire, That Would Ascend The Brightest Heaven Of Invention.

Death Makes No Conquest Of This Conqueror: For Now He Lives In Fame, Though Not In Life.

Time Is Like A Fashionable Host That Slightly Shakes His Parting Guest By The Hand, And With His Arm Outstretch'd, As He Would Fly, Grasps In The Comer.

Away, You Mouldy Rogue, Away!