Life's Bloomy Flush Was Lost.

To Every Class We Have A School Assign'd, Rules For All Ranks, And Food For Every Mind: Yet One There Is, That Small Regard To Rule Or Study Pays, And Still Is Deem'd A School; That, Where A Deaf, Poor, Patient Widow Sits, And Awes Some Thirty Infants As She Knits; Infants Of Humble, Busy Wives, Who Pay Some Trifling Price For Freedom Through The Day. At This Good Matron's Hut The Children Meet, Who Thus Becomes The Mother Of The Street.

A Sly Old Fish, Too Cunning For The Hook.

I Grant Indeed That Fields And Flocks Have Charms, For Him That Gazes Or For Him That Farms.

Against Her Foes Religion Well Defends Her Sacred Truths, But Often Fears Her Friends.

He Tried The Luxury Of Doing Good.