Superstition Is The Spleen Of The Soul.

In A Sadly Pleasing Strain, Let The Warbling Lute Complain.

The Hog That Ploughs Not, Not Obeys Thy Call, Lives On The Labours Of This Lord Of All.

No More Was Seen The Human Form Divine.

The Villain's Censure Is Extorted Praise.

E'en Sunday Shines No Sabbath Day To Me.