The Quaker loves an ample brim, A hat that bows to no salaam; And dear the beaver is to him As if it never made a dam.

Boughs are daily rifled By the gusty thieves, And the book of Nature Getteth short of leaves.

Apothegms form a short cut to much knowledge.

It was a childish ignorance, But now 'tis little joy To know I'm further off from heaven Than when I was a boy.

Comfort and indolence are cronies.

Oh would I were dead now, Or up in my bed now, To cover my head now, And have a good cry!

O bed! O bed! delicious bed! That heaven upon earth to the weary head.