Ever Let The Fancy Roam, Pleasure Never

And, Of All Lies (be That One Poet's Boast) / The Lie That Flatters I Abhor The Most.

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

I Crown Thee King Of Intimate Delights, Fire-side Enjoyments, Home-born Happiness, And All The Comforts That The Lowly Roof Of Undisturb'd Retirement, And The Hours Of Long Uninterrupted Ev'ning, Know.

Accomplishments Have Taken Virtue's Place, And Wisdom Falls Before Exterior Grace.

If My Resolution To Be A Great Man Was Half So Strong As It Is To Despise The Shame Of Being A Little One.