Imitators Are But A Servile Kind Of

Mighty Things From Small Beginnings Grow.

Here Lies My Wife: Here Let Her Lie! Now She's At Rest, And So Am I.

But Love's A Malady Without A Cure.

Trust On And Think To-morrow Will Repay; To-morrow's Falser Than The Former Day; Lies Worse; And While It Says, We Shall Be Blest With Some New Joys, Cuts Off What We Possest.

What I Have Left Is From My Native Spring; I've Still A Heart That Swells, In Scorn Of Fate, And Lifts Me To My Banks.