The leaf was darkish, and had prickles on it, But in another country, as he said, Bore a bright golden flow'r, but not in this soil; Unknown, and like esteem'd, and the dull swain Treads on it daily with his clouted shoon.

When complaints are freely heard, deeply considered and speedily reformed, then is the utmost bound of civil liberty attained that wise men look for.

And, when night Darkens the streets, then wander forth the sons Of Belial, flown with insolence and wine.

This is servitude, To serve the unwise.

To adore the conqueror, who now beholds Cherub and seraph rolling in the flood.

A short retirement urges a sweet return.

Among unequals what society Can sort, what harmony, or true delight?