The poem
----- 'TIS easier far a wreath to bind, Than a good owner fort to find.
I KILL'D a thousand flies overnight, Yet was waken'd by one, as soon as twas light.
To the mother I give; For the daughter I live.
A BREACH is every day,
By many a mortal storm'd; Let them fall in the gaps as they may,
Yet a heap of dead is ne'er form'd.
WHAT harm has thy poor mirror done, alas? Look not so ugly, prythee, in the glass!
1815.*