His Fine Wit Makes Such A Wound,

There Is No Real Wealth But The Labour Of Man. Were The Mountains Of Gold And The Valleys Of Silver, The World Would Not Be One Grain Of Corn The Richer; No One Comfort Would Be Added To The Human Race.

Man's Yesterday May Never Be Like His Morrow; Nought May Endure But Mutability.

Of Planets, Struggling Fierce Towards Heaven's Free Wilderness.

Design Must Be Proved Before A Designer Can Be Inferred.

As Long As Skies Are Blue, And Fields Are Green Evening Must Usher Night, Night Urge The Morrow, Month Follow Month With Woe, And Year Wake Year To Sorrow