Nature, Exerting An Unwearied Power, Forms, Opens,

Remorse, The Fatal Egg By Pleasure Laid, In Every Bosom Where Her Nest Is Made, Hatched By The Beams Of Truth, Denies Him Rest, And Proves A Raging Scorpion In His Breast.

When Scandal Has New-minted An Old Lie, Or Tax'd Invention For A Fresh Supply, 'tis Call'd A Satire, And The World Appears Gathering Around It With Erected Ears; A Thousand Names Are Toss'd Into The Crowd, Some Whisper'd Softly, And Some Twang'd Aloud, Just As The Sapience Of An Author's Brain, Suggests It Safe Or Dangerous To Be Plain.

Grief Is Itself A Medicine.

An Inadvertent Step May Crush The Snail That Crawls At Evening In The Public Path. But He That Has Humanity, Forewarned, Will Turn Aside And Let The Reptile Live.

Lived In His Saddle, Loved The Chase, The Course, And Always, Ere He Mounted, Kiss'd His Horse.