Vices And Virtues Are Of A Strange

I Was Not Born For Courts And Great Affairs, But I Pay My Debts, Believe And Say My Prayers.

But Satan Now Is Wiser Than Of Yore, And Tempts By Making Rich, Not Making Poor.

The Approach Of Night The Skies Yet Blushing With Departing Light, When Falling Dews With Spangles Deck'd The Glade, And The Low Sun Had Lengthen'd Ev'ry Shade.

Whoe'er He Be That Tells My Faults, I Hate Him Mortally.

Lend, Lend Your Wings! I Mount! I Fly! O Grave! Where Is Thy Victory? O Death! Where Is Thy Sting?