Every Language Is So Full Of Its

Time And Death Shall Depart And Say In Flying Love Has Found Out A Way To Live, By Dying.

The Poorest Of The Sex Have Still An Itch To Know Their Fortunes, Equal To The Rich. The Dairy-maid Inquires, If She Shall Take The Trusty Tailor, And The Cook Forsake.

An Horrible Stillness First Invades Our Ear, And In That Silence We The Tempest Fear.

These Are The Effects Of Doting Age,--vain Doubts And Idle Cares And Over Caution.

Tis Fate That Flings The Dice, And As She Flings Of Kings Makes Peasants, And Of Peasants Kings.