But Love's A Malady Without A Cure.

Great Wits Are Sure To Madness Near Allied, And Thin Partitions Do Their Bounds Divide.

So Softly Death Succeeded Life In Her, She Did But Dream Of Heaven, And She Was There.

The Good We Have Enjoyed From Heaven's Free Will, And Shall We Murmur To Endure The Ill?

Be Slow To Resolve, But Quick In Performance.

He Is A Perpetual Fountain Of Good Sense.