All We Behold Is Miracle.

Man In Society Is Like A Flow'r, Blown In Its Native Bed. 'tis There Alone His Faculties Expanded In Full Bloom Shine Out, There Only Reach Their Proper Use.

Thus Happiness Depends, As Nature Shows, Less On Exterior Things Than Most Suppose.

The Spleen Is Seldom Felt Where Flora Reigns; The Low'ring Eye, The Petulance, The Frown, And Sullen Sadness, That O'ershade, Distort, And Mar The Face Of Beauty, When No Cause For Such Immeasurable Woe Appears; These Flora Banishes, And Gives The Fair Sweet Smiles, And Bloom Less Transient Than Her Own.

Our Love Is Principle, And Has Its Root In Reason, Is Judicious, Manly, Free.

O Solitude, Where Are The Charms That Sages Have Seen In Thy Face? Better Dwell In The Midst Of Alarms, Than Reign In This Horrible Place.