From toil he wins his spirits light, From busy day the peaceful night; Rich, from the very want of wealth, In heaven's best treasures, peace and health.

To Contemplation's sober eye. / Such is the race of Man.

Visions of glory, spare my aching sight! Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul!

Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame, With many a foul and midnight murder fed.

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

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.

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.