Error Is Always Talkative.

But Times Are Alter'd; Trade's Unfeeling Train Usurp The Land, And Dispossess The Swain; Along The Lawn, Where Scatter'd Hamlets Rose, Unwieldy Wealth And Cumbrous Pomp Repose.

The Malicious Sneer Is Improperly Called Laughter.

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

Well Had The Boding Tremblers Learn'd To Trace The Day's Disasters In His Morning Face; Full Well They Laugh'd With Counterfeited Glee At All His Jokes, For Many A Joke Had He; Full Well The Busy Whisper Circling Round Convey'd The Dismal Tidings When He Frown'd. Yet Was He Kind, Or If Severe In Aught, The Love He Bore To Learning Was In Fault; The Village All Declar'd How Much He Knew, 'twas Certain He Could Write And Cipher Too.

To Make A Fine Gentleman, Several Trades Are Required, But Chiefly A Barber.