The Whirligig Of Time Brings In His

And Flights Of Angels Sing Thee To Thy Rest!

O Coward Conscience, How Dost Thou Afflict Me!

Too Early Seen Unknown, And Known Too Late!

O, This Life Is Nobler Than Attending For A Check, Richer Than Doing Nothing For A Robe, Prouder Than Rustling In Unpaid-for Silk: Such Pain The Cap Of Him That Makes Him Fine Yet Keeps His Book Uncrossed.

One May Smile, And Smile, And Be A Villain.