Riches Have Wings, And Grandeur Is A

There Is A Mixture Of Evil In Everything We Do; Indulgence Encourages Us To Encroach, While We Crabbe Exercise The Rights Of Children, We Become Childish.

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.

What Peaceful Hours I Once Enjoy'd! How Sweet Their Memory Still! But They Have Left An Aching Void The World Can Never Fill.

Even In The Stifling Bosom Of The Town, A Garden, In Which Nothing Thrives, Has Charms That Soothes The Rich Possessor; Much Consol'd, That Here And There Some Sprigs Of Mournful Mint, Or Nightshade, Or Valerian, Grace The Well He Cultivates.

Men Deal With Life As Children With Their Play, Who First Misuse, Then Cast Their Toys Away.