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Lettered inside image: "15 | The thing they can't but purpose, they postpone: | 'Tis not in folly, not to scorn a fool; | And scarce in human wisdom to do more: | All promise is poor dilatory man, | And that through every stage: when young, indeed, | In full content we sometimes nobly rest, | Unanxious for ourselves; and only wish, | As duteous sons, our fathers were more wise: | At thirty man suspects himself a fool; | Knows it at forty, and reforms his plan; | At fifty chides his infamous delay, | Pushes his prudent purpose to resolve; | In all the magnanimity of thought | Resolves, and re-resolves; then dies the same. | And why? because he thinks himself immortal: | All men think all men mortal, but themselves; | Themselves;--when some alarming shock of fate | Strikes through their wounded hearts the sudden dread; | But their hearts wounded, like the wounded air, | Soon close; where pass'd the shaft no trance is found. | As from the wing no scar the sky retains; | The parted wave no furrow from the keel; | So dies in human hearts the thought of death: | Even with the tender tear which nature sheds | O'er those we love, we drop it in their grave. | Can I forget PHILANDER? that were strange: | O my full heart!--but should I give it vent, | *The longest night though longer far, would fail, | And the lark listen to my midnight song."; lower left: "inv & sc | WB"; lower left: "Pubd. June 27 1796, by R. Edwards, No. 142, New Bond Street."; Lettered on verso, inside image: "16 | The sprightly lark's shrill matin wakes the morn, | Grief's sharpest thorn hard pressing on my breast; | I strive, with wakeful melody, to cheer | The sullen gloom, sweet philomel! like thee, | And call the stars to listen; every star | Is deaf to mine, enamour'd of thy lay: | Yet be not vain; there are, who thine excel, | And charm through distant ages: wrapp'd in shade, | Pris'ner of darkness! to the silent hours, | How often I repeat their rage divine, | To lull my griefs, and steal my heart from woe! | I roll their raptures, but not catch their fire: | Dark, though not blind, like thee Maeonides! | Or, Milton! thee; ah, could I reach your strain! | Or his, who made Maeonides our own: | Man too he sung--immortal man I sing: | *Oft bursts my song beyond the bounds of life; | What now, but immortality, can please? | O had he press'd his theme, pursued the track, | Which opens out of darkness into day! | O had he mounted on his wing of fire, | Soar'd, where I sink, and sung immortal man! | How had it bless'd mankind, and rescued me!"; lower right: "inv. & sc | WB"; lower left: "London Pubd. June 21, 1796, by R. Edwards, 142 New Bond Street."