Die Of A Rose In Aromatic Pain.

But To The World No Bugbear Is So Great, As Want Of Figure And A Small Estate.

Nay, Fly To Altars; There They'll Talk You Dead; For Fools Rush In Where Angels Fear To Tread.

Self-love, The Spring Of Motion, Acts The Soul; Reason's Comparing Balance Rules The Whole. Man, But For That No Action Could Attend, And, But For This, Were Active To No End: Fix'd Like A Plant On His Peculiar Spot, To Draw Nutrition, Propagate, And Rot; Or, Meteor-like, Flame Lawless Thro' The Void, Destroying Others, By Himself Destroy'd.

Hope Springs Eternal In The Human Breast: Man Never Is, But Always To Be Blest.

Fix'd Like A Plant On His Peculiar Spot, To Draw Nutrition, Propagate And Rot.