I Happy Am, If Well

I Am Obnoxious To Each Carping Tongue/ Who Says My Hand A Needle Better Fits./ A Poet's Pen All Scorn I Should Thus Wrong/ For Such Despite They Cast On Female Wits;/ If What I Do Prove Well, It Won't Advance,/ They'll Say It's Stolen, Or Else, It Was By Chance.

That When We Live No More, We May Live Ever

The Stones And Trees, Insensible To Time, / Nor Age Nor Wrinkle On Their Front Are Seen; / If Winter Come, And Greenness Then Do Fade / A Spring Returns, And They More Youthful Made; / But Man Grows Old, Lies Down, Remains Where Once He's Laid.

Art Can Do Much, But This Maxim's Most Sure/a Weak Or Wounded Brain Admits No Cure.

Sin And Shame Ever Go Together; He That Would Be Freed From The Last Must Be Sure To Shun The Company Of The First.