Order Is The Greatest Grace.

Let Cheerfulness On Happy Fortune Wait.

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

Riches Cannot Rescue From The Grave, Which Claims Alike The Monarch And The Slave.

When He Spoke, What Tender Words He Used! So Softly, That Like Flakes Of Feathered Snow, They Melted As They Fell.

Nothing To Build, And All Things To Destroy.