No further seek his merits to disclose, Or draw his frailties from their dread abode There they alike in trembling hope repose), The bosom of his Fat… - Thomas Gray

Ah, happy hills, ah, pleasing shade,
Ah, fields belov'd in vain,
Where once my careless childhood stray'd,
A stranger yet to pain!
I feel the gales, that from ye blow,
A momentary bliss bestow,
As waving fresh their gladsome wing,
My weary soul they seem to soothe,
And, redolent of joy and youth,
To breathe a second spring.

Too poor for a bribe, and too proud to importune, He had not the method of making a fortune.

T'was Spring, t'was Summer, all was gay Now Autumn bears a cloud brow The flowers of Spring are swept way And Summer fruits desert the bough