Reality Is Always The Foe Of Famous

Books Come At My Call And Return When I Desire Them; They Are Never Out Of Humor And They Answer All My Questions With Readiness. Some Present In Review Before Me The Events Of Past Ages; Others Reveal To Me The Secrets Of Nature. These Teach Me How To Live, And Those How To Die; These Dispel My Melancholy By Their Mirth, And Amuse Me By Their Sallies Of Wit. Some There Are Who Prepare My Soul To Suffer Everything, To Desire Nothing, And To Become Thoroughly Acquainted With Itself. In A Word, They Open The Door To All The Arts And Sciences.

How Difficult It Is To Save The Bark Of Reputation From The Rocks Of Ignorance.

Mere Elegance Of Language Can Produce At Best But An Empty Renown.

And I Live On, But In Grief And Self-contempt, Left Here Without The Light I Loved So Much, In A Great Tempest And With Shrouds Unkempt.

Those Spacious Regions Where Our Fancies Roam, Pain'd By The Past, Expecting Ills To Come, In Some Dread Moment, By The Fates Assign'd, Shall Pass Away, Nor Leave A Rack Behind; And Time's Revolving Wheels Shall Lose At Last The Speed That Spins The Future And The Past: And, Sovereign Of An Undisputed Throne, Awful Eternity Shall Reign Alone.