There Is An Old Poor

The Blood Of Youth Burns Not With Such Excess As Gravity's Revolt To Wantonness.

When I Have Plucked The Rose, I Cannot Give It Vital Growth Again, It Needs Must Wither. I'll Smell It On The Tree.

To Persevere In Obstinate Condolement Is A Course Of Impious Stubbornness: 'tis Unmanly Grief.

If By Chance I Talk A Little Wild, Forgive Me; I Had It From My Father.

That Which I Would Discover The Law Of Friendship Bids Me To Conceal.