All Hope Is Lost Of My Reception

Yet Once More, O Ye Laurels, And Once More Ye Myrtles Brown, With Ivy Never Sere, I Come To Pluck Your Berries Harsh And Crude, And With Forced Fingers Rude Shatter Your Leaves Before The Mellowing Year.

The Stars, That Nature Hung In Heaven, And Filled Their Lamps With Everlasting Oil, Give Due Light To The Misled And Lonely Traveller.

Eye Me, Blest Providence, And Square My Trial To My Proportion'd Strength.

In Argument With Men A Woman Ever Goes By The Worse, Whatever Be Her Cause.

Come And Trip It As Ye Go On The Light Fantastic Toe.