Know, Nature's Children All Divide Her Care,

But Touch Me, And No Minister So Sore. Whoe'er Offends, At Some Unlucky Time Slides Into Verse, And Hitches In A Rhyme, Sacred To Ridicule His Whole Life Long, And The Sad Burthen Of Some Merry Song.

The Only Time You Run Out Of Chances Is When You Stop Taking Them

No Silver Saints, By Dying Misers Giv'n, Here Brib'd The Rage Of Ill-requited Heav'n; But Such Plain Roofs As Piety Could Raise, And Only Vocal With The Maker's Praise.

Genuine Religion Is Not So Much A Matter Of Feeling As A Matter Of Principle.

Slave To No Sect, Who Takes No Private Road, But Looks Through Nature Up To Nature's God.