Sweet Auburn, Loveliest Village Of The Plain.

Wept O'er His Wounds, Or Tales Of Sorrow Done, Shoulder'd His Crutch, And Shew'd How Fields Were Won.

Teach Erring Man To Spurn The Rage Of Gain.

Titles And Mottoes To Books Are Like Escutcheons And Dignities In The Hands Of A King. The Wise Sometimes Condescend To Accept Of Them; But None But A Fool Would Imagine Them Of Any Real Importance. We Ought To Depend Upon Intrinsic Merit, And Not The Slender Helps Of The Title.

Take A Dollar From A Thousand And It Will Be A Thousand No More.

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.