Broke Is A Temporary Condition, Poor Is

Cease, Man, To Mourn, To Weep, To Wail; Enjoy Thy Shining Hour Of Sun; We Dance Along Death's Icy Brink, But Is The Dance Less Full Of Fun?

Do What Thy Manhood Bids Thee Do.

Friends Of My Youth, A Last Adieu! Haply Some Day We Meet Again; Yet Ne'er The Self-same Men Shall Meet; The Years Shall Make Us Other Men.

Travellers, Like Poets, Are Mostly An Angry Race: By Falling Into A Daily Fit Of Passion, I Proved To The Governor And His Son, Who Were Profuse In Their Attentions, That I Was In Earnest.

For Each Believes His Glimm'ering Lamp To Be The Gorgeous Light Of Day.