Then Farewell, Horace; Whom I Hated So,

Ancient Of Days! August Athena! Where, Where Are Thy Men Of Might? Thy Grand In Soul? Gone--glimmering Through The Dream Of Things That Were; First In The Race That Led To Glory's Goal, They Won, And Pass'd Away--is This The Whole?

Though The Day Of My Destiny 's Over, And The Star Of My Fate Hath Declined, Thy Soft Heart Refused To Discover The Faults Which So Many Could Find.

Good Work And Joyous Play Go Hand In Hand. When Play Stops, Old Age Begins. Play Keeps You From Taking Life Too Seriously.

Italia! O Italia! Thou Who Hast The Fatal Gift Of Beauty.

Not To Admire, Is All The Art I Know To Make Men Happy, Or To Keep Them So. Thus Horace Wrote We All Know Long Ago; And Thus Pope Quotes The Precept To Re-teach From His Translation; But Had None Admired, Would Pope Have Sung, Or Horace Been Inspired?