The Worst Of Madmen Is A Saint

With Sharpen'd Sight Pale Antiquaries Pore, Th' Inscription Value, But The Rust Adore. This The Blue Varnish, That The Green Endears; The Sacred Rust Of Twice Ten Hundred Years.

I Find Myself Hoping A Total End Of All The Unhappy Divisions Of Mankind By Party-spirit, Which At Best Is But The Madness Of Many For The Gain Of A Few.

A Man Of Business May Talk Of Philosophy; A Man Who Has None May Practice It.

Words Are Like Leaves; And Where They Most Abound, Much Fruit Of Sense Beneath Is Rarely Found.

Our Plenteous Streams A Various Race Supply, The Bright-eyed Perch With Fins Of Tyrian Dye, The Silver Eel, In Shining Volumes Roll'd, The Yellow Carp, In Scales Bedropp'd With Gold, Swift Trouts, Diversified With Crimson Stains, And Pikes, The Tyrants Of The Wat'ry Plains.