If A Farmer Fills His Barn With

A Mother's Pride, A Father's Joy.

Discretion Is The Perfection Of Reason, And A Guide To Us In All The Duties Of Life.

Lightly From Fair To Fair He Flew, And Loved To Plead, Lament, And Sue; Suit Lightly Won, And Short-lived Pain, For Monarchs Seldom Sigh In Vain.

Thus Aged Men, Full Loth And Slow, The Vanities Of Life Forego, And Count Their Youthful Follies O'er, Till Memory Lends Her Light No More.

Thou And I Are But The Blind Instruments Of Some Irresistible Fatality, That Hurries Us Along, Like Goodly Vessels Driving Before The Storm, Which Are Dashed Against Each Other, And So Perish.