It's A Hard World, Neighbors, If A

Men's Virtues I Have Commended As Freely As I Have Taxed Their Crimes.

All, As They Say, That Glitters Is Not Gold.

So Poetry, Which Is In Oxford Made An Art, In London Only Is A Trade.

Death Only This Mysterious Truth Unfolds, The Mighty Soul How Small A Body Holds.

All Things Are Subject To Decay And When Fate Summons, Monarchs Must Obey.