Trade's Proud Empire Hastes To Swift Decay.

Whatever Be The Motives Which Induce Men To Write,--whether Avarice Or Fame,--the Country Becomes More Wise And Happy In Which They Most Serve For Instructors.

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

Near Yonder Copse, Where Once The Garden Smil'd, And Still Where Many A Garden Flower Grows Wild, There, Where A Few Torn Shrubs The Place Disclose, The Village Preacher's Modest Mansion Rose. A Man He Was To All The Country Dear, And Passing Rich With Forty Pounds A Year; Remote From Town's He Ran His Godly Race, Nor E'er Had Chang'd Nor Wish'd To Change His Place; Unskilful He To Fawn, Or Seek For Power, By Doctrines Fashion'd To The Varying Hour; Far Other Aims His Heart Had Learn'd To Prize. More Bent To Raise The Wretched Than To Rise.

I Always Get The Better When I Argue Alone.

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.