I Am His Highness' Dog At Kew;

Oh, Blindness To The Future! Kindly Giv'n, That Each May Fill The Circle Mark'd By Heaven.

Leave Not A Foot Of Verse, A Foot Of Stone, A Page, A Grave, That They Can Call Their Own; But Spread, My Sons, Your Glory Thin Or Thick, On Passive Paper, Or On Solid Brick.

Hope Humbly Then; With Trembling Pinions Soar; Wait The Great Teacher, Death, And God Adore; What Future Bliss He Gives Not Thee To Know, But Gives That Hope To Be Thy Blessing Now.

On Wrongs Swift Vengeance Waits.

The Only Time You Run Out Of Chances Is When You Stop Taking Them