Our Bounty, Like A Drop Of Water,

Near Yonder Copse, Where Once The Garden Smil'd, And Still Where Many A Garden Flower Grows Wild, There, Where A Few Torn Shrubs The Place Disclose, The Village Preacher's Modest Mansion Rose. A Man He Was To All The Country Dear, And Passing Rich With Forty Pounds A Year; Remote From Town's He Ran His Godly Race, Nor E'er Had Chang'd Nor Wish'd To Change His Place; Unskilful He To Fawn, Or Seek For Power, By Doctrines Fashion'd To The Varying Hour; Far Other Aims His Heart Had Learn'd To Prize. More Bent To Raise The Wretched Than To Rise.

The Soul May Be Compared To A Field Of Battle, Where The Armies Are Ready Every Moment To Encounter. Not A Single Vice But Has A More Powerful Opponent, And Not One Virtue But May Be Overborne By A Combination Of Vices.

Romance And Novel Paint Beauty In Colors More Charming Than Nature, And Describe A Happiness That Humans Never Taste. How Deceptive And Destructive Are Those Pictures Of Consummate Bliss!

Persecution Is A Tribute The Great Must Always Pay For Preeminence.

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.