To Me More Dear, Congenial To My

Measures, Not Men, Have Always Been My Mark.

Vain, Very Vain, My Weary Search To Find That Bliss Which Only Centers In The Mind.

And As A Bird Each Fond Endearment Tries To Tempt Its New-fledg'd Offspring To The Skies, He Tried Each Art, Reprov'd Each Dull Delay, Allur'd To Brighter Worlds, And Led The Way.

Though Very Poor, May Still Be Very Blest.

Pity, Though It May Often Relieve, Is But, At Best, A Short-lived Passion, And Seldom Affords Distress More Than Transitory Assistance; With Some It Scarce Lasts From The First Impulse Till The Hand Can Be Put Into The Pocket.