God Made Bees, And Bees Made Honey,

How! Leap Into The Pit Our Life To Save? To Save Our Life Leap All Into The Grave.

Even In The Stifling Bosom Of The Town, A Garden, In Which Nothing Thrives, Has Charms That Soothes The Rich Possessor; Much Consol'd, That Here And There Some Sprigs Of Mournful Mint, Or Nightshade, Or Valerian, Grace The Well He Cultivates.

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

Elegant As Simplicity, And Warm As Ecstasy.

Religion, If In Heavenly Truths Attired, Needs Only To Be Seen To Be Admired.