The World Forgetting, By The World Forgot.

There Still Remains To Mortify A Wit The Many-headed Monster Of The Pit.

Speed The Soft Intercourse From Soul To Soul, And Waft A Sigh From Indus To The Pole.

Behold The Child, By Nature's Kindly Law, Pleased With A Rattle, Tickled With A Straw; Some Livelier Plaything Gives His Youth Delight, A Little Louder, But As Empty Quite; Scarfs, Garters, Gold, Amuse His Riper Stage, And Beads And Prayer-books Are The Toys Of Age. Pleased With This Bauble Still, As That Before, Till Tired He Sleeps, And Life's Poor Play Is O'er.

Fickle Fortune Reigns, And, Undiscerning, Scatters Crowns And Chains.

Many Men Have Been Capable Of Doing A Wise Thing, More A Cunning Thing, But Very Few A Generous Thing.