A happier lot were mine, If I must lose thee, to go down to earth, For I shall have no hope when thou art gone,-- Nothing but sorrow. Father have I none, And no dear mother.

Homer ("Smyrns of Chios")

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Sinks my sad soul with sorrow to the grave.

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Urge him with truth to frame his fair replies; And sure he will; for wisdom never lies.

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Fly, dotard, fly! With thy wise dreams and fables of the sky.

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Having well polished the whole bow, he added a golden tip.

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Yet, taught by time, my heart has learned to glow For other's good, and melt at other's woe.

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