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Lettered on facing page: "34 | In furrow'd brows: so gentle life's descent, | We shut our eyes, and think it is a plain. | We take fair days in winter for the spring; | And turn our blessings into bane: since oft | Man must compute that age he cannot feel, | He scarce believes he's older for his years: | Thus, at life's latest eve, we keep in store | One disappointment sure, to crown the rest-- | The disappointment of a promised hour. | On this, or similar, PHILANDER! thou, | Whose mind was moral, as the preacher's tongue; | And strong to wield all science, worth the name; | How often we talk'd down the summer's sun, | And cool'd our passions by the breezy stream! | How often thaw'd and shorten'd winter'd eve, | By conflict kind, that struck out latent truth, | Best found, so sought; to the recluse more coy! | Thoughts disentangle passing o'er the lip; | Clean runs the thread; if not, 'tis thrown away, | Or kept to tie up nonsense for a song-- | Song, fashionably fruitless! such as stains | The fancy, and unhallow'd passion fires; | Chiming her saints to Cytherea's fane. | Know'st thou, LORENZO! what a friend contains? | As bees mix'd nectar draw from fragrant flowers, | So men from friendship, wisdom and delight; | Twins tied by nature; if they part, they die. | Hast thou no friend to set thy mind abroach? | Good sense will stagnate: thoughts shut up, want air, | And spoil, like bales unopen'd to the sun."