I Am His Highness' Dog At Kew;

Some Judge Of Authors' Names, Not Works, And Then Nor Praise Nor Blame The Writings, But The Men.

Ye Flowers That Drop, Forsaken By The Spring, Ye Birds That, Left By Summer, Cease To Sing, Ye Trees That Fade, When Autumn Heats Remove, Say, Is Not Absence Death To Those Who Love?

Who Sees With Equal Eye, As God Of All, A Hero Perish Or A Sparrow Fall, Atoms Or Systems Into Ruin Hurl'd, And Now A Bubble Burst, And Now A World.

Those Oft Are Stratagems Which Errors Seem Nor Is It Homer Nods, But We That Dream.

Virtue, I Grant You, Is An Empty Boast; But Shall The Dignity Of Vice Be Lost?