Oft In Dreams Invention We Bestow To

But Just Disease To Luxury Succeeds, And Ev'ry Death Its Own Avenger Breeds.

On Cold December Fragrant Chaplets Blow, And Heavy Harvests Nod Beneath The Snow.

Praise From A Friend, Or Censure From A Foe, Are Lost On Hearers That Our Merits Know.

We Think Our Fathers Fools, So Wise We Grow. Our Wiser Sons, No Doubt Will Think Us So.

What Is Fame? A Fancied Life In Others' Breath.