The Good He Scorn'd Stalk'd Off Reluctant,

How Shocking Must Thy Summons Be, O Death, To Him That Is At Ease In His Possessions! Who, Counting On Long Years Of Pleasure Here, Is Quite Unfurnished For The World To Come.

The Good He Scorn'd Stalk'd Off Reluctant, Like An Ill-us'd Ghost, Not To Return; Or If It Did, Its Visits Like Those Of Angels, Short, And Far Between.

Action, So To Speak, Is The Genius Of Nature.

The Common Damn'd Shun Their Society.

Friendship! Mysterious Cement Of The Soul, Sweet'ner Of Life, And Solder Of Society.