No Tribute Is Laid On Castles In

The More Haste, Ever The Worst Speed.

The Villager, Born Humbly And Bred Hard, Content His Wealth, And Poverty His Guard, In Action Simply Just, In Conscience Clear, By Guilt Untainted, Undisturb'd By Fear, His Means But Scanty, And His Wants But Few, Labor His Business, And His Pleasure Too, Enjoys More Comforts In A Single Hour Than Ages Give The Wretch Condemn'd To Power.

Enough Of Self, That Darling Luscious Theme, O'er Which Philosophers In Raptures Dream; Of Which With Seeming Disregard They Write Then Prizing Most When Most They Seem To Slight.

Who, With Tame Cowardice Familiar Grown, Would Hear My Thoughts, But Fear To Speak Their Own.

By Different Methods Different Men Excel, But Where Is He Who Can Do All Things Well?