For All Have Not The Gift Of

He Trudged Along Unknowing What He Sought, And Whistled As He Went, For Want Of Thought.

He Look'd In Years, Yet In His Years Were Seen A Youthful Vigor, And Autumnal Green.

Beauty, Like Ice, Our Footing Does Betray; Who Can Tread Sure On The Smooth, Slippery Way: Pleased With The Surface, We Glide Swiftly On, And See The Dangers That We Cannot Shun.

Virgil And Horace [were] The Severest Writers Of The Severest Age.

Ah, How Sweet It Is To Love! Ah, How Gay Is Young Desire! And What Pleasing Pains We Prove When We First Approach Love's Fire!