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

Where ignorance is bliss, 'Tis folly to be wise.

And moody madness laughing wild Amid severest woe.

No further seek his merits to disclose, Or draw his frailties from their dread abode (There they alike in trembling hope repose), The bosom of his Father and his God.

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

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.

To brisk notes in cadence beating, glance their many-twinkling feet.