The meanest flowret of the vale, / The simplest note that swells the gale, / The common sun, the air, and skies, / To him are opening paradise.

Youth smiles without any reason. It is one of its chiefest charms.

Alas, regardless of their doom, the little victims play! No sense have they of ills to come nor care beyond today.

Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breast The little tyrant of his fields withstood, Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest, Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood.

And hie him home, at evening's close, To sweet repast and calm repose.

Chill penury repress'd their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul.

Now as the Paradisiacal pleasures of the Mahometans consist in playing upon the flute and lying with Houris, be mine to read eternal new romances of Marivaux and Crebillon.