What I Have Left Is

You See Through Love, And That Deludes Your Sight, As What Is Straight Seems Crooked Through The Water.

So Poetry, Which Is In Oxford Made An Art, In London Only Is A Trade.

Since Every Man Who Lives Is Born To Die, And None Can Boast Sincere Felicity, With Equal Mind, What Happens, Let Us Bear, Nor Joy Nor Grieve Too Much For Things Beyond Our Care. Like Pilgrims To The' Appointed Place We Tend; The World's An Inn, And Death The Journey's End.

If The Faults Of Men In Orders Are Only To Be Judged Among Themselves, They Are All In Some Sort Parties; For, Since They Say The Honour Of Their Order Is Concerned In Every Member Of It, How Can We Be Sure That They Will Be Impartial Judges?

The Soft Complaining Flute, In Dying Notes, Discovers The Woes Of Hopeless Lovers.