Those Who Think Must Govern Those That

To Me More Dear, Congenial To My Heart, One Native Charm, Than All The Gloss Of Art.

Near Yonder Thorn, That Lifts Its Head On High, Where Once The Sign-post Caught The Passing Eye, Low Lies That House Where Nut-brown Draughts Inspired, Where Graybeard Mirth And Smiling Toil Retired, Where Village Statesmen Talk'd With Looks Profound, And News Much Older Than Their Ale Went Round.

It Seemed To Me Pretty Plain, That They Had More Of Love Than Matrimony In Them.

Could A Man Live By It, It Were Not Unpleasant Employment To Be A Poet.

Our Chief Comforts Often Produce Our Greatest Anxieties, And The Increase In Our Possessions Is But An Inlet To New Disquietudes.