In indolent vacuity of thought.

All we behold is miracle.

The rich are too indolent, the poor too weak, to bear the insupportable fatigue of thinking.

The proud are ever most provoked by pride.

Lived in his saddle, loved the chase, the course, And always, ere he mounted, kiss'd his horse.

Religion, richest favor of the skies.

God moves in a mysterious way His wonders to perform; He plants his footsteps in the sea, And rides upon the storm. Deep in unfathomable mines Of never failing skill He treasures up his bright designs, And works his sovereign will. Ye fearful saints fresh courage take, The clouds ye so much dread Are big with mercy, and shall break In blessings on your head. Judge not the Lord by feeble sense, But trust him for his grace; Behind a frowning providence He hides a smiling face.