The Pregnant Quarry Teem'd With Human Form.

A Man Who Leaves Home To Mend Himself And Others Is A Philosopher; But He Who Goes From Country To Country, Guided By The Blind Impulse Of Curiosity, Is A Vagabond.

Good People All, With One Accord, Lament For Madam Blaize, Who Never Wanted A Good Word From Those Who Spoke Her Praise.

Write How You Want, The Critic Shall Show The World You Could Have Written Better.

The Youth Who Follows His Appetites Too Soon Seizes The Cup, Before It Has Received Its Best Ingredients, And By Anticipating His Pleasures, Robs The Remaining Parts Of Life Of Their Share, So That His Eagerness Only Produces Manhood Of Imbecility And An Age Of Pain.

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.