Death Ends Our Woes, And The Kind

He Is The Very Janus Of Poets; He Wears Almost Everywhere Two Faces; And You Have Scarce Begun To Admire The One, Ere You Despise The Other.

For Truth Has Such A Face And Such A Mien, As To Be Loved Needs Only To Be Seen.

For Secrets Are Edged Tools, And Must Be Kept From Children And From Fools.

Pleasure Never Comes Sincere To Man; But Lent By Heaven Upon Hard Usury.

What I Have Left Is From My Native Spring; I've Still A Heart That Swells, In Scorn Of Fate, And Lifts Me To My Banks.