Crime Generally Punishes Itself.

Near Yonder Copse, Where Once The Garden Smil'd, And Still Where Many A Garden Flower Grows Wild, There, Where A Few Torn Shrubs The Place Disclose, The Village Preacher's Modest Mansion Rose. A Man He Was To All The Country Dear, And Passing Rich With Forty Pounds A Year; Remote From Town's He Ran His Godly Race, Nor E'er Had Chang'd Nor Wish'd To Change His Place; Unskilful He To Fawn, Or Seek For Power, By Doctrines Fashion'd To The Varying Hour; Far Other Aims His Heart Had Learn'd To Prize. More Bent To Raise The Wretched Than To Rise.

But Winter Lingering Chills The Lap Of May.

Take A Dollar From A Thousand And It Will Be A Thousand No More.

Conscience Is A Coward, And Those Faults It Has Not Strength Enough To Prevent It Seldom Has Justice Enough To Accuse.

Politics Resemble Religion; Attempting To Divest Either Of Ceremony Is The Most Certain Mode Of Bringing Either Into Contempt.