The lamb thy riot dooms to bleed today, Had he thy reason, would he skip and play? Pleas'd to the last he crops the flow'ry food, And licks the hand just rais'd to shed his blood.

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

Mankind is unamendable.

The season when to come, and when to go, to sing, or cease to sing, we never know.

Reason's whole pleasure, all the joys of sense, Lie in three words,-health, peace, and competence.

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.

This long disease, my life.