So Poetry, Which Is In Oxford Made

So Softly Death Succeeded Life In Her, She Did But Dream Of Heaven, And She Was There.

For Danger Levels Man And Brute And All Are Fellows In Their Need.

The Soft Complaining Flute, In Dying Notes, Discovers The Woes Of Hopeless Lovers.

Happy The Man, And Happy He Alone, He Who Can Call Today His Own; He Who, Secure Within, Can Say, Tomorrow Do Thy Worst, For I Have Lived Today.

Go Miser Go, For Money Sell Your Soul. Trade Wares For Wares And Trudge From Pole To Pole, So Others May Say When You Are Dead And Gone. See What A Vast Estate He Left His Son.