I Learn To Pity Woes So Like

Men's Virtues I Have Commended As Freely As I Have Taxed Their Crimes.

We Must Beat The Iron While It Is Hot, But We May Polish It At Leisure.

Riches Cannot Rescue From The Grave, Which Claims Alike The Monarch And The Slave.

Fame Then Was Cheap, And The First Comer Sped; And They Have Kept It Since By Being Dead.

Of No Distemper, Of No Blast He Died, But Fell Like Autumn Fruit That Mellow'd Long: Even Wonder'd At, Because He Dropp'd No Sooner. Fate Seem'd To Wind Him Up For Fourscore Years; Yet Freshly Ran He On Ten Winters More; Till Like A Clock Worn Out With Eating Time, The Wheels Of Weary Life At Last Stood Still.