Nothing To Build, And All Things To

Only Man Clogs His Happiness With Care, Destroying What Is With Thoughts Of What May Be.

An Hour Will Come, With Pleasure To Relate Your Sorrows Past, As Benefits Of Fate.

The Unhappy Man, Who Once Has Trail'd A Pen, Lives Not To Please Himself, But Other Men; Is Always Drudging, Wastes His Life And Blood, Yet Only Eats And Drinks What You Think Good.

There's A Proud Modesty In Merit; Averse From Asking, And Resolved To Pay Ten Times The Gifts It Asks.

Among Our Crimes Oblivion May Be Set.