Beauties, When Disposed To Sleep, Should From

O Days Remember'd Well! Remember'd All! The Bitter Sweet, The Honey And The Gall; Those Garden Rambles In The Silent Night, Those Trees So Shady, And That Moon Se Bright, That Thickset Alley By The Arbor Clos'd, That Woodbine Seat Where We At Last Repos'd; And Then The Hopes That Came And Then Were Gone, Quick As The Clouds Beneath The Moon Past On.

Say, Ye Oppress'd By Some Fantastic Woes, Some Jarring Nerve That Baffles Your Repose; Who Press The Downy Couch, While Slaves Advance With Timid Eye, To Read The Distant Glance; Who With Sad Prayers The Weary Doctor Tease, To Name The Nameless Ever-new Disease; Who With Mock Patience Dire Complaints Endure, Which Real Pain And That Alone Can Cure; How Would Ye Bear In Real Pain To Lie, Despised, Neglected, Left Alone To Die? How Would Ye Bear To Draw Your Latest Breath, Where All That's Wretched Paves The Way For Death?

Void Of All Honor, Avaricious, Rash, The Daring Tribe Compound Their Boasted Trash Tincture Of Syrup, Lotion, Drop, Or Pill; All Tempt The Sick To Trust The Lying Bill.

What Is A Church?—our Honest Sexton Tells, 'tis A Tall Building, With A Tower And Bells.

Anger Makes Us Strong, Blind And Impatient, And It Leads Us Wrong; The Strength Is Quickly Lost; We Feel The Error Long.