There Is No Flesh In Man's Obdurate

Be It A Weakness, It Deserves Some Praise, We Love The Play-place Of Our Early Days; The Scene Is Touching, And The Heart Is Stone, That Feels Not At That Sight, And Feels At None.

What Is It But A Map Of Busy Life, Its Fluctuations, And Its Vast Concerns?

For 'tis A Truth Well Known To Most, That Whatsoever Thing Is Lost, We Seek It, Ere It Comes To Light, In Every Cranny But The Right.

The Man That Dares Traduce, Because He Can With Safety To Himself, Is Not A Man.

The Rich Are Too Indolent, The Poor Too Weak, To Bear The Insupportable Fatigue Of Thinking.