He Who First Praises A

To My Ninth Decade I Have Totter'd On, And No Soft Arm Bends Now My Steps To Steady; She, Who Once Led Me Where She Would, Is Gone, So When He Calls Me, Death Shall Find Me Ready.

There Are Proud Men Of So Much Delicacy That It Almost Conceals Their Pride, And Perfectly Excuses It.

The Present, Like A Note In Music, Is Nothing But As It Appertains To What Is Past And What Is To Come.

Heat And Animosity, Contest And Conflict, May Sharpen The Wits, Although They Rarely Do; They Never Strengthen The Understanding, Clear The Perspicacity, Guide The Judgment, Or Improve The Heart.

In The Morn Of Life We Are Alert, We Are Heated In Its Noon, And Only In Its Decline Do We Repose.