Mortifications Are Often More Painful Than Real

One Writer, For Instance, Excels At A Plan Or A Title Page, Another Works Away At The Body Of The Book, And A Third Is A Dab At An Index.

Well Had The Boding Tremblers Learn'd To Trace The Day's Disasters In His Morning Face; Full Well They Laugh'd With Counterfeited Glee At All His Jokes, For Many A Joke Had He; Full Well The Busy Whisper Circling Round Convey'd The Dismal Tidings When He Frown'd. Yet Was He Kind, Or If Severe In Aught, The Love He Bore To Learning Was In Fault; The Village All Declar'd How Much He Knew, 'twas Certain He Could Write And Cipher Too.

Alike All Ages. Dames Of Ancient Days Have Led Their Children Through The Mirthful Maze, And The Gay Grandsire, Skill'd In Gestic Lore, Has Frisk'd Beneath The Burden Of Threescore.

Philosophy Can Add To Our Happiness In No Other Manner But By Diminishing Our Misery; It Should Not Pretend To Increase Our Present Stock, But Make Us Economists Of What We Are Possessed Of. Happy Were We All Born Philosophers; All Born With A Talent Of Thus Dissipating Our Own Cares By Spreading Them Upon All Mankind.

Near Yonder Thorn, That Lifts Its Head On High, Where Once The Sign-post Caught The Passing Eye, Low Lies That House Where Nut-brown Draughts Inspired, Where Graybeard Mirth And Smiling Toil Retired, Where Village Statesmen Talk'd With Looks Profound, And News Much Older Than Their Ale Went Round.