When We Two Parted In

What Is The End Of Fame? 'tis But To Fill A Certain Portion Of Uncertain Paper: Some Liken It To Climbing Up A Hill, Whose Summit, Like All Hills, Is Lost In Vapour: For This Men Write, Speak, Preach, And Heroes Kill, And Bards Burn What They Call Their "midnight Taper," To Have, When The Original Is Dust, A Name, A Wretched Picture, And Worse Bust.

Then Farewell, Horace; Whom I Hated So, Not For Thy Faults, But Mine.

Let No Man Grumble When His Friends Fall Off, As They Will Do Like Leaves At The First Breeze; When Your Affairs Come Round, One Way Or T'other, Go To The Coffee House, And Take Another.

The Cold, The Changed, Perchance The Dead, Anew, The Mourn'd, The Loved, The Lost,-too Many, Yet How Few!

I Know That Two And Two Make Four - And Should Be Glad To Prove It Too If I Could - Though I Must Say If By Any Sort Of Process I Could Convert 2 And 2 Into Five It Would Give Me Much Greater Pleasure.