Who Riseth From A Feast With That

Wilt Thou Whip Thine Own Faults In Other Men?

Ideas Are The Very Coinage Of Your Brain.

Virtue Preserv'd From Fell Destruction's Blast, Led On By Heaven, And Crown'd With Joy At Last.

The Wounds Invisible That Love's Keen Arrows Make.

His Life Was Gentle; And The Elements So Mixed In Him, That Nature Might Stand Up And Say To All The World, This Was A Man!