And Empty Heads Console With

The Vanity Of Human Life Is Like A River, Constantly Passing Away, And Yet Constantly Coming On.

I Begin Where Most People End, With A Full Conviction Of The Emptiness Of All Sorts Of Ambition, And The Unsatisfactory Nature Of All Human Pleasures.

Homer Excels All The Inventors Of Other Arts In This: That He Has Swallowed Up The Honor Of Those Who Succeeded Him.

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?

The Soul, Uneasy And Confin'd From Home, Rests And Expatiates In A Life To Come.