Sure There's Contagion In The Tears Of

Bold Knaves Thrive Without One Grain Of Sense, But Good Men Starve For Want Of Impudence.

Moderate Sorrow Fits Vulgar Love, And For A Vulgar Man: But I Have Lov'd With Such Transcendent Passion, I Soar'd, At First, Quite Out Of Reason's View, And Now Am Lost Above It.

An Hour Will Come, With Pleasure To Relate Your Sorrows Past, As Benefits Of Fate.

Restless At Home, And Ever Prone To Range.

Since Every Man Who Lives Is Born To Die, And None Can Boast Sincere Felicity, With Equal Mind, What Happens, Let Us Bear, Nor Joy Nor Grieve Too Much For Things Beyond Our Care. Like Pilgrims To The' Appointed Place We Tend; The World's An Inn, And Death The Journey's End.