The search of our future being is but a needless, anxious, and haste to be knowing, sooner than we can, what, without all this solicitude, we shall know a little later.

Age and want sit smiling at the gate.

The lights and shades, whose well-accorded strife gives all the strength and color of our life.

Act well your part, there all the honour lies.

See skulking Truth to her old cavern fled, Mountains of Casuistry heap'd o'er her head! Philosophy, that lean'd on Heav'n before, Shrinks to her second cause, and is no more. Physic of Metaphysic begs defence, And Metaphysic calls for aid on Sense! See Mystery to Mathematics fly!

I lisp'd in numbers, for the numbers came.

Lo! The poor Indian, whose untutored mind sees God in clouds, or hears him in the wind.