The zeal of fools offends at any time.

As the twig is bent, so grows the tree.

The flower's are gone when the Fruits appear to ripen.

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

A fellow feeling makes us wondrous kind.

So vast is art, so narrow human wit.

That, chang'd thro' all and yet in all the same, Great in the Earth as in th' Ætherial frame, Warms in the Sun, refreshes in the Breeze, Glows in the Stars, and blossoms in the Trees... Breathes in our soul, informs our mortal part... Submit - in this, or any other Sphere, Secure to be as blest as thou canst bear. All Nature is but Art, unknown to thee; All Chance, Direction which thou canst not see; All Discord, Harmony not understood... All partial Evil, universal Good.