One Cannot Say He Wanted Wit, But

For All The Happiness Mankind Can Gain Is Not In Pleasure, But In Rest From Pain.

For Secrets Are Edged Tools, And Must Be Kept From Children And From Fools.

The Sooner You Treat Your Son As A Man, The Sooner He Will Be One.

Death Ends Our Woes, And The Kind Grave Shuts Up The Mournful Scene.

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.