Happy The Man, And Happy He Alone,

Trust On And Think To-morrow Will Repay; To-morrow's Falser Than The Former Day; Lies Worse; And While It Says, We Shall Be Blest With Some New Joys, Cuts Off What We Possest.

Even Victors Are By Victories Undone.

Farewell, Too Little, And Too Lately Known, Whom I Began To Think And Call My Own.

In Pious Times, Ere Priest-craft Did Begin, Before Polygamy Was Made A Sin; When Man, On Many, Multipli'd His Kind, Ere One To One Was Cursedly Confin'd: When Nature Prompted, And No Law Deni'd Promiscuous Use Of Concubine And Bride; Then, Israel's Monarch, After Heaven's Own Heart, His Vigorous Warmth Did Variously Impart To Wives And Slaves: And, Wide As His Command, Scatter'd His Maker's Image Through The Land.

While I Am Compassed Round With Mirth, My Soul Lies Hid In Shades Of Grief, Whence, Like The Bird Of Night, With Half-shut Eyes, She Peeps, And Sickens At The Sight Of Day.