Do good by stealth, and blush to find it fame.

Is there a parson much bemused in beer, a maudlin poetess, a rhyming peer, a clerk foredoom'd his father's soul to cross, who pens a stanza when he should engross?

All nature mourns, the skies relent in showers; hushed are the birds, and closed the drooping flowers.

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

The cabinets of the sick and the closets of the dead have been ransacked to publish private letters and divulge to all mankind the most secret sentiments of friendship.

For when success a lover's toil attends,Few ask, if fraud or force attain'd his ends

So upright Quakers please both man and God.