A Certain Portion Of The Human Race

When Was Ever Honey Made With One Bee In A Hive?

Whoe'er Has Gone Thro' London Street, Has Seen A Butcher Gazing At His Meat, And How He Keeps Gloating Upon A Sheep's Or Bullock's Personals, As If His Own; How He Admires His Halves And Quarters--and His Calves, As If In Truth Upon His Own Legs Grown.

Bells Are Musics Laughter.

There Is Not A String Attuned To Mirth But Has Its Chord Of Melancholy.

For Man May Pious Texts Repeat, And Yet Religion Have No Inward Seat