The Rich Are Too Indolent, The Poor

And The Tear That Is Wiped With A Little Address, May Be Follow'd Perhaps By A Smile.

Judge Not The Lord By Feeble Sense, But Trust Him For His Grace; Behind A Frowning Providence He Hides A Smiling Face.

Mansions Once Knew Their Own Masters, And Laborious Hinds, That Had Surviv'd The Father, Serv'd The Son. Now The Legitimate And Rightful Lord Is But A Transient Guest, Newly Arrived, And Soon To Be Supplanted. He That Saw His Patrimonial Timber Cast Its Leaf, Sells The Last Scantling, And Transfers The Price To Some Shrewd Sharper Ere It Buds Again. Estates Are Landscapes, Gazed Upon Awhile, Then Advertised And Auctioneer'd Away.

A Teacher Should Be Sparing Of His Smile.

Great Contest Follows, And Much Learned Dust Involves The Combatants; Each Claiming Truth, And Truth Disclaiming Both.