When The Poet Died His Cat Was

He Loves But Lightly Who His Love Can Tell.

Ruthless Striving, Overcomes Everything.

Virtue Is Health, Vice Is Sickness.

For Death Betimes Is Comfort, Not Dismay, And Who Can Rightly Die Needs No Delay.

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.