If I am right, Thy grace impart Still in the right to stay; If I am wrong, O, teach my heart To find that better way!

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.

Not always actions show the man; we find who does a kindness is not therefore kind.

Jarring interests of themselves create the according music of a well-mixed state.

Gentle dullness ever loves a joke.

Our plenteous streams a various race supply, The bright-eyed perch with fins of Tyrian dye, The silver eel, in shining volumes roll'd, The yellow carp, in scales bedropp'd with gold, Swift trouts, diversified with crimson stains, And pikes, the tyrants of the wat'ry plains.

The world is a thing we must of necessity either laugh at or be angry at; if we laugh at it, they say we are proud; if we are angry at it, they say we are ill-natured.