Why did I write? What sin to me unknown dipped me in ink, my parents , or my own?

So vast is art, so narrow human wit.

Oh! be thou blest with all that Heaven can send, Long health, long youth, long pleasure-and a friend.

Thus God and nature linked the gen'ral frame, And bade self-love and social be the same.

Whoe'er he be That tells my faults, I hate him mortally.

A brave man thinks no one his superior who does him an injury, for he has it then in his power to make himself superior to the other by forgiving it.

Words are like Leaves; and where they most abound, Much Fruit of Sense beneath is rarely found.