Second Thoughts, They Say, Are Best.

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.

How Easy 'tis, When Destiny Proves Kind, With Full-spread Sails To Run Before The Wind!

Ever A Glutton, At Another's Cost, But In Whose Kitchen Dwells Perpetual Frost.

For Thee, Sweet Month; The Groves Green Liveries Wear. If Not The First, The Fairest Of The Year; For Thee The Graces Lead The Dancing Hours, And Nature's Ready Pencil Paints The Flowers. When Thy Short Reign Is Past, The Feverish Sun The Sultry Tropic Fears, And Moves More Slowly On.

Here Lies My Wife: Here Let Her Lie! Now She's At Rest, And So Am I.