What A Seaof Melting Ice I Walk

Cheerful Looks Make Every Dish A Feast, And It Is That Which Crowns A Welcome.

Greatness, With Private Men Esteem'd A Blessing, Is To Me A Curse; And We, Whom, For Our High Births, They Conclude The Happy Freemen, Are The Only Slaves. Happy The Golden Mean!

Tis The Only Discipline We Are Born For; All Studies Else Are But As Circular Lines, And Death The Center Where They All Must Meet.

Petitions, Not Sweetened With Gold, Are But Unsavory And Oft Refused; Or, If Received, Are Pocketed, Not Read.

Conscience And Wealth Are Not Always Neighbors.