Our Proper Bliss Depends On What We

I Lisp'd In Numbers, For The Numbers Came.

Leave Not A Foot Of Verse, A Foot Of Stone, A Page, A Grave, That They Can Call Their Own; But Spread, My Sons, Your Glory Thin Or Thick, On Passive Paper, Or On Solid Brick.

Wholesome Solitude, The Nurse Of Sense!

Alas! The Small Discredit Of A Bribe Scarce Hurts The Lawyer, But Undoes The Scribe.

What Reason Weaves, By Passion Is Undone.