Truth Is The Golden Girdle Of The

Even In The Stifling Bosom Of The Town, A Garden, In Which Nothing Thrives, Has Charms That Soothes The Rich Possessor; Much Consol'd, That Here And There Some Sprigs Of Mournful Mint, Or Nightshade, Or Valerian, Grace The Well He Cultivates.

No, Freedom Has A Thousand Charms To Show That Slaves, Howe'er Contented, Never Know.

Elegant As Simplicity, And Warm As Ecstasy.

Man In Society Is Like A Flow'r, Blown In Its Native Bed. 'tis There Alone His Faculties Expanded In Full Bloom Shine Out, There Only Reach Their Proper Use.

Domestic Happiness, Thou Only Bliss Of Paradise That Has Surviv'd The Fall!