Where Beams Of Imagination Play, The Memory's

A Brave Man Struggling In The Storms Of Fate, And Greatly Falling With A Falling State.

No Silver Saints, By Dying Misers Giv'n, Here Brib'd The Rage Of Ill-requited Heav'n; But Such Plain Roofs As Piety Could Raise, And Only Vocal With The Maker's Praise.

'tis Not Enough Your Counsel Still Be True; Blunt Truths More Mischief Than Nice Falsehoods Do.

To Buy Books As Some Do Who Make No Use Of Them, Only Because They Were Published By An Eminent Printer, Is Much As If A Man Should Buy Clothes That Did Not Fit Him, Only Because They Were Made By Some Famous Tailor.

Tis True, 'tis Certain; Man, Though Dead, Retains Part Of Himself; The Immortal Mind Remains.