Sweet is the breath of vernal shower,/ The bee's collected treasure sweet,/ Sweet music's melting fall, but sweeter yet/ The still small voice of gratitude.

When love could teach a monarch to be wise, And gospel-light first dawn'd from Bullen's eyes.

Any fool may write a most valuable book by chance, if he will only tell us what he heard and saw with veracity.

Men will believe anything at all provided they are under no obligation to believe it.

Here rests his head upon the lap of earth, A youth to fortune and to fame unknown: Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth, And Melancholy mark'd him for her own.

Beyond the limits of a vulgar fate, Beneath the good how far,-but far above the great.

Sweet is the breath of vernal shower,/ The bee's collected treasure sweet,/ Sweet music's melting fall, but sweeter yet/ The still small voice of gratitude.