Who Often Reads, Will Sometimes Wish To

Void Of All Honor, Avaricious, Rash, The Daring Tribe Compound Their Boasted Trash Tincture Of Syrup, Lotion, Drop, Or Pill; All Tempt The Sick To Trust The Lying Bill.

See Time Has Touched Me Gently In His Race, And Left No Odious Furrows In My Face.

Life Is Not Measured By The Time We Live.

When Winter Stern, His Gloomy Front Uprears, A Sable Void The Barren Earth Appears; The Meads No More Their Former Verdure Boast, Fast-bound Their Streams, And All Their Beauty Lost; The Herds, The Flocks, In Icy Garments Mourn, And Wildly Murmur For The Spring's Return; From Snow-topp'd Hills The Whirlwinds Keenly Blow, Howl Through The Woods, And Pierce The Vales Below, Through The Sharp Air A Flaky Torrent Flies, Mocks The Slow Sight, And Hides The Gloomy Skies.

All Green Was Anished Sae Of Pine And Yew, That Still Displayed Their Melancholy Hue; Sae The Green Holly With Its Berries Red, And The Green Moss That O'er The Grael Spread.