Poetry Is Thoughts That Breathe, And Words

No Further Seek His Merits To Disclose, Or Draw His Frailties From Their Dread Abode (there They Alike In Trembling Hope Repose), The Bosom Of His Father And His God.

The Applause Of List'ning Senates To Command, The Threats Of Pain And Ruin To Despise, To Scatter Plenty O'er A Smiling Land, And Read Their History In A Nation's Eyes.

Any Fool May Write A Most Valuable Book By Chance, If He Will Only Tell Us What He Heard And Saw With Veracity.

As To Posterity, I May Ask What Has It Ever Done To Oblige Me?

We Frolic While 'tis May.