The Beggarly Last Doit.

Friends, Books, A Garden, And Perhaps His Pen, Delightful Industry Enjoy'd At Home, An Nature, In Her Cultivated Trim Dress'ed To His Taste, Inviting Him Abroad - Can He Want Occupation Who Has These?

I Was A Poet Too; But Modern Taste Is So Refined And Delicate And Chaste, That Verse, Whatever Fire The Fancy Warms, Without A Creamy Smoothness Has No Charms. Thus, All Success Depending On An Ear, And Thinking I Might Purchase It Too Dear, If Sentiment Were Sacrific'd To Sound, And Truth Cut Short To Make A Period Round, I Judg'd A Man Of Sense Could Scarce Do Worse Than Caper In The Morris-dance Of Verse.

What Is There In The Vale Of Lifehalf So Delightful As A Wife;when Friendship, Love And Peace Combineto Stamp The Marriage-bond Divine?

No Man Can Be A Patriot On An Empty Stomach.

Slaves Cannot Breathe In England; If Their Lungs Receive Our Air, That Moment They Are Free; They Touch Our Country, And Their Shackles Fall.