What Is It But A Map Of

The Statesman, Lawyer, Merchant, Man Of Trade Pants For The Refuge Of Some Rural Shade, Where All His Long Anxieties Forgot Amid The Charms Of A Sequester'd Spot, Or Recollected Only To Gild O'er And Add A Smile To What Was Sweet Before, He May Possess The Joys He Thinks He Sees, Lay His Old Age Upon The Lap Of Ease, Improve The Remnant Of His Wasted Span. And Having Lived A Trifler, Die A Man.

No Traveler E'er Reached That Blest Abode Who Found Not Thorns And Briers In His Road.

Greece, Sound, Thy Homer's, Rome Thy Virgil's Name, But England's Milton Equals Both In Fame.

Ever Let The Fancy Roam, Pleasure Never Is At Home.

Judge Not The Lord By Feeble Sense, But Trust Him For His Grace; Behind A Frowning Providence He Hides A Smiling Face. His Purposes Will Ripen Fast, Unfolding Every Hour;the Bud May Have A Bitter Taste, But Sweet Will Be The Flow’r. Blind Unbelief Is Sure To Err And Scan His Work In Vain; God Is His Own Interpreter, And He Will Make It Plain.