Let my drinking partner say
A month he reigned, but that was ripe.
118.
No gems which pluméd fortune wears,
No drop that hangs from beauty’s ears,
Nor the bright stars which night’s blue vault adorn,
Nor rising suns that gild the vernal morn,
Shine with such lustre as the tear that breaks
For other’s woe down virtue’s manly cheeks.
119. Frankfort-on-the-Maine.