Here will she come, and on the grave will sit,
Folding her arms, in long abstracted fit;
But if observer pass, will take her round,
And careless seem, for she would not be found;
Then go again, and thus her hour employ,
While visions please her, and while woes destroy.
Forbear, sweet Maid! nor be by Fancy led,
To hold mysterious converse with the dead;
For sure at length thy thoughts, thy spirit's pain,
In this sad conflict will disturb thy brain;
All have their tasks and trials; thine are hard,
But short the time, and glorious the reward;
Thy patient spirit to thy duties give,
Regard the dead, but to the living live.



LETTER III.



And telling me the sov'reign'st thing on earth
Was parmacity for an inward bruise.
SHAKSPEARE, Henry IV, Part I

So gentle, yet so brisk, so wond'rous sweet,
So fit to prattle at a lady's feet.
CHURCHILL

Much are the precious hours of youth misspent