Where beams of imagination play, the memory's soft figures melt away.

Our rural ancestors, with little blest, Patient of labor when the end was rest, Indulged the day that housed their annual grain, With feasts, and off'rings, and a thankful strain.

'Tis not a lip, or eye, we beauty call, But the joint force and full result of all.

Cursed be the verse, how well so e'er it flow, That tends to make one worthy man my foe.

Why has not Man a microscopic eye? For this plain reason, Man is not a Fly. Say what the use, were finer optics giv'n, T' inspect a mite, not comprehend the heav'n.

Our passions are like convulsion fits, which, though they make us stronger for a time, leave us the weaker ever after.

No writing is good that does not tend to better mankind in some way or other.