God Made Thee Perfect, Not Immutable.

Or Bid The Soul Of Orpheus Sing Such Notes As, Warbled To The String, Drew Iron Tears Down Pluto's Cheek.

Our Country Is Where Ever We Are Well Off.

The Love-lorn Nightingale Nightly To Thee Her Sad Song Mourneth Well.

But Oh! As To Embrace Me She Inclin'd, I Wak'd, She Fled, And Day Brought Back My Night.

I Hate When Vice Can Bolt Her Arguments, And Virtue Has No Tongue To Check Her Pride.