It World Be Well Had We More

The Volume Of Nature Is The Book Of Knowledge.

Her Modest Looks The Cottage Might Adorn, Sweet As The Primrose Peeps Beneath The Thorn.

Good People All, With One Accord, Lament For Madam Blaize, Who Never Wanted A Good Word From Those Who Spoke Her Praise.

Like The Tiger, That Seldom Desists From Pursuing Man After Having Once Preyed Upon Human Flesh, The Reader Who Has Once Gratified His Appetite With Calumny Makes Ever After The Most Agreeable Feast Upon Murdered Reputations!

O Friendship! Thou Fond Soother Of The Human Breast, To Thee We Fly In Every Calamity; To Thee The Wretched Seek For Succor; On Thee The Care-tired Son Of Misery Fondly Relies; From Thy Kind Assistance The Unfortunate Always Hopes Relief, And May Be Sure Of--disappointment.