Speme e Fortune, addio; che' in porto entrai.
Schernite gli altri; ch'io vi spregio omai.

Speme e Fortune, addio; che' in porto entrai.
Schernite gli altri; ch'io vi spregio omai.

Loe here the precious dust is layd;
Whose purely-temper'd clay was made
So fine that it the read more

Loe here the precious dust is layd;
Whose purely-temper'd clay was made
So fine that it the guest betray'd.
Else the soule grew so fast within,
It broke the outward shall of sinne
And so was hatch'd a cherubin.

Ere sin could blight or sorrow fade,
Death came with friendly care;
The opening bud to Heaven read more

Ere sin could blight or sorrow fade,
Death came with friendly care;
The opening bud to Heaven conveyed,
And bade it blossom there.

Shrine of the mighty! can it be,
That this is all remains of thee?

Shrine of the mighty! can it be,
That this is all remains of thee?

"Let there be no inscription upon my tomb. Let no man write my
epitaph. No man can write my read more

"Let there be no inscription upon my tomb. Let no man write my
epitaph. No man can write my epitaph. I am here ready to die.
I am not allowed to vindicate my character; and when I am
prevented from vindicating myself, let no man dare calumniate me.
Let my character and motives repose in obscurity and peace, till
other times and other men can do them justice."

Baths, wine and Venus bring decay to our bodies; but baths, wine
and Venus make up life.
[Lat., read more

Baths, wine and Venus bring decay to our bodies; but baths, wine
and Venus make up life.
[Lat., Balnea, vina, Venus corrumpunt corpora nostra;
Sed vitam faciunt baldea, vina, Venus.]

This Mirabeau's work, then is done. He sleeps with the primeval
giants. He has gone over to the majority: read more

This Mirabeau's work, then is done. He sleeps with the primeval
giants. He has gone over to the majority: "Abiit ad plures."

Farewell, vain world, I've had enough of thee,
And Valies't not what thou Can'st say of me;
read more

Farewell, vain world, I've had enough of thee,
And Valies't not what thou Can'st say of me;
Thy Smiles I count not, nor thy frowns I fear,
My days are past, my head lies quiet here.
What faults you saw in me take Care to shun,
Look but at home, enough is to be done.

Kind reader! take your choice to cry or laugh;
Here Harod lies--but where's his Epitaph?
If such read more

Kind reader! take your choice to cry or laugh;
Here Harod lies--but where's his Epitaph?
If such you seek, try Westminister, and view
Ten thousand, just as fit for him as you.