Monuments, Like Men, Submit To Fate.

Behold The Groves That Shine With Silver Frost, Their Beauty Withered, And Their Verdure Lost!

Men, Some To Business, Some To Pleasure Take; But Every Woman Is At Heart A Rake.

The Good Must Merit God's Peculiar Care; But Who But God Can Tell Us Who They Are?

The Light Of Heaven Restore; Give Me To See, And Ajax Asks No More.

Whether The Charmer Sinner It, Or Saint It, If Folly Grow Romantic, I Must Paint It.