Ourselves Are To Ourselves The Cause Of

Enough Of Self, That Darling Luscious Theme, O'er Which Philosophers In Raptures Dream; Of Which With Seeming Disregard They Write Then Prizing Most When Most They Seem To Slight.

With That Malignant Envy Which Turns Pale, And Sickens, Even If A Friend Prevail.

And Reputation Bleeds In Ev'ry Word.

Even In A Hero's Heart Discretion Is The Better Part.

With Curious Art The Brain, Too Finely Wrought, Preys On Herself, And Is Destroyed By Thought.