Envy Will Merit As Its

Lend, Lend Your Wings! I Mount! I Fly! O Grave! Where Is Thy Victory? O Death! Where Is Thy Sting?

Is Pride, The Never-failing Vice Of Fools.

While Pensive Poets Painful Vigils Keep, Sleepless Themselves, To Give Their Readers Sleep.

All Nature Mourns, The Skies Relent In Showers; Hushed Are The Birds, And Closed The Drooping Flowers.

Envy Will Merit As Its Shade Pursue, But Like A Shadow, Proves The Substance True.