As If The World And They Were

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.

All Flesh Is Grass. And All Its Glory Fades Like The Fair Flower Dishevell'd In The Wind; Riches Have Wings, And Grandeur Is A Dream; The Man We Celebrate Must Find A Tomb, And We That Worship Him, Ignoble Graves.

Some People Are More Nice Than Wise.

Judge Not The Lord By Feeble Sense, But Trust Him For His Grace; Behind A Frowning Providence He Hides A Smiling Face.

How Various His Employments Whom The World Calls Idle; And Who Justly In Return Esteems That Busy World An Idler Too!