We Must Beat The Iron While It

Three Poets, In Three Distant Ages Born, Greece, Italy, And England Did Adorn. The First In Loftiness Of Thought Surpass'd; The Next, In Majesty; In Both The Last. The Force Of Nature Could No Further Go; To Make A Third, She Join'd The Former Two.

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.

Heaven Be Thanked, We Live In Such An Age, When No Man Dies For Love, But On The Stage.

Set All Things In Their Own Peculiar Place, And Know That Order Is The Greatest Grace.

Words Are But Pictures Of Our Thoughts.