Know Then Thyself, Presume Not God To

Leave Not A Foot Of Verse, A Foot Of Stone, A Page, A Grave, That They Can Call Their Own; But Spread, My Sons, Your Glory Thin Or Thick, On Passive Paper, Or On Solid Brick.

Fair Tresses Man's Imperial Race Ensnare; And Beauty Draws Us With A Single Hair.

But To The World No Bugbear Is So Great, As Want Of Figure And A Small Estate.

While I Live, No Rich Or Noble Knave Shall Walk The World In Credit To His Grave.

Is That A Birthday? 'tis, Alas! Too Clear; 'tis But The Funeral Of The Former Year.