Blest Be Those Feasts, With Simple Plenty

At Night Returning, Every Labour Sped, He Sits Him Down, The Monarch Of A Shed; Smiles By His Cheerful Fire, And Round Surveys His Children's Looks, That Brighten At The Blaze; While His Lov'd Partner, Boastful Of Her Hoard, Displays Her Cleanly Platter On The Board.

The Fortunate Circumstances Of Our Lives Are Generally Found, At Last, To Be Of Our Own Producing.

Fear Guides More To Their Duty Than Gratitude; For One Man Who Is Virtuous From The Love Of Virtue, From The Obligation He Thinks He Lies Under To The Giver Of All, There Are Ten Thousand Who Are Good Only From Their Apprehension Of Punishment.

The Wretch Condemn'd With Life To Part, Still, Still On Hope Relies; And Every Pang That Rends The Heart Bids Expectation Rise.

O Luxury! Thou Curst By Heaven's Decree!