A Teacher Should Be Sparing Of His

All Affectation; 'tis My Perfect Scorn; Object Of My Implacable Disgust.

O Solitude, Where Are The Charms That Sages Have Seen In Thy Face? Better Dwell In The Midst Of Alarms, Than Reign In This Horrible Place.

It Chills My Blood To Hear The Blest Supreme Rudely Appealed To On Each Trifling Theme.

Thieves At Home Must Hang; But He That Puts Into His Overgorged And Bloated Purse The Wealth Of Indian Provinces, Escapes.

Heaven Speed The Canvas, Gallantly Unfurl'd, To Furnish And Accommodate A World, To Give The Pole The Produce Of The Sun, And Knit The Unsocial Climates Into One.