'Tis sweet to know there is an eye will mark our coming, and look brighter when we come.

Oh, for a forty-parson power to chant Thy praise, Hypocrisy! Oh, for a hymn Loud as the virtues thou dost loudly vaunt, Not practise!

Tis pleasant purchasing our fellow-creatures; And all are to be sold, if you consider Their passions, and are dext'rous; some by features Are brought up, others by a warlike leader; Some by a place--as tend their years or natures; The most by ready cash--but all have prices, From crowns to kicks, according to their vices.

Eternity forbids thee to forget.

I love the language, it sounds as if it should be writ on satin with syllables which breathe of the sweet South

A schoolboy's tale, the wonder of an hour!

And hold up to the sun my little taper.