Detested Sport, That Owes Its Pleasures To

Knowledge Is Proud That It Knows So Much; Wisdom Is Humble That It Knows No More.

The Still Small Voice Is Wanted.

Who Loves A Garden Loves A Greenhouse Too.

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

There Is In Souls A Sympathy With Sounds: And As The Mind Is Pitch'd The Ear Is Pleased With Melting Airs, Or Martial, Brisk Or Grave; Some Chord In Unison With What We Hear Is Touch'd Within Us, And The Heart Replies.