The innocent seldom find an uncomfortable pillow.

It chills my blood to hear the blest Supreme Rudely appealed to on each trifling theme.

There is in souls a sympathy with sounds: And as the mind is pitch'd the ear is pleased With melting airs, or martial, brisk or grave; Some chord in unison with what we hear Is touch'd within us, and the heart replies.

Lord, it is my chief complaint, That my love is weak and faint; Yet I love thee and adore, Oh for grace to love thee more!

Reasoning at every step he treads, Man yet mistakes his way, Whilst meaner things, whom instinct leads, Are rarely known to stray.

The proud are ever most provoked by pride.

The kindest and the happiest pair Will find occasion to forbear; And something, every day they live, To pity, and perhaps forgive.