The Hours Of A Wise Man Are

Music, The Greatest Good That Mortals Know, And All Of Heaven We Have Below. Music Can Noble Hints Impart, Engender Fury, Kindle Love; 40 With Unsuspected Eloquence Can Move, And Manage All The Man With Secret Art. When Orpheus Strikes The Trembling Lyre The Streams Stand Still, The Stones Admire; The Listening Savages Advance, The World And Lamb Around Him Trip The Bears In Aukward Measures Leap, And Tigers Mingle In The Dance The Moving Woods Attended As He Played And Rhodope Was Left Without A Shade.

Waning Moons Their Settled Periods Keep, To Swell The Billows And Ferment The Deep.

The Utmost Extent Of Man's Knowledge, Is To Know That He Knows Nothing.

There Is Nothing That More Betrays A Base Ungenerous Spirit Than The Giving Of Secret Stabs To A Man's Reputation. Lampoons And Satires That Are Written With Wit And Spirit Are Like Poisoned Darts, Which Not Only Inflict A Wound, But Make It Incurable.

I Never Knew An Early-rising, Hard-working, Prudent Man, Careful Of His Earnings And Strictly Honest, Who Complained Of Hard Luck. A Good Character, Good Habits And Iron Industry Are Impregnable To The Assaults Of All Ill-luck That Fools Ever Dreamed.