In Itself A Thought, A Slumbering Thought

Yet Smelt Roast Meat, Beheld A Huge Fire Shine, And Cooks In Motion With Their Clean Arms Bared.

Pythagoras, Locke, Socrates - But Pages Might Be Filled Up, As Vainly As Before, With The Sad Usage Of All Sorts Of Sages, Who In His Life-time, Each Was Deemed A Bore! The Loftiest Minds Outrun Their Tardy Ages.

Yet Still There Whispers The Small Voice Within, Heard Through Gain's Silence, And O'er Glory's Din; Whatever Creed Be Taught Or Land Be Trod, Man's Conscience Is The Oracle Of God.

Kill A Man's Family, And He May Brook It, But Keep Your Hands Out Of His Breeches' Pocket.

All Who Joy Would Win Must Share It. Happiness Was Born A Twin.