That Music In Itself, Whose

Here Lies Interred In The Eternity Of The Past, From Whence There Is No Resurrection For The Days - Whatever There May Be For The Dust - The Thirty-third Year Of An Ill-spent Life, Which, After A Lingering Disease Of Many Months Sank Into A Lethargy, And Expired, January 22d, 1821, A.d. Leaving A Successor Inconsolable For The Very Loss Which Occasioned Its Existence.

Pure Friendship's Well-feigned Blush.

Like To The Apples On The Dead Sea's Shore, All Ashes To The Taste.

Where There Is Mystery, It Is Generally Suspected There Must Also Be Evil.

So Much Alarmed That She Is Quite Alarming