A Saint In Crape Is Twice A

Who Know But He, Whose Hand The Lightning Forms, Who Heaves Old Ocean, And Who Wings The Storms, Pours Fierce Ambition In A Caesar's Mind.

Of Fight Or Fly, This Choice Is Left Ye, To Resist Or Die.

In A Sadly Pleasing Strain, Let The Warbling Lute Complain.

Of Manners Gentle, Of Affections Mild; In Wit A Man; Simplicity, A Child.

The Difference Is Too Nice - Where Ends The Virtue Or Begins The Vice.