All wish to know to whom is due such praise;
’Tis due to one whose loss I’ll long deplore,
My friend’s a TOOTH, alas just gone before.
SONNET.
Man stalks gigantic, lord in proud extreme,
O’er all creations wond’rous scope can give,
Bow’d by no yoke, scarce to the great supreme,
Whose sanction bad mortality to live.
Yet what pursues he? Lucre’s molten pelf,