The Volume Of Nature Is The Book

But Winter Lingering Chills The Lap Of May.

And The Weak Soul, Within Itself Unbless'd, Leans For All Pleasure On Another's Breast.

I Hate The French Because They Are All Slaves And Wear Wooden Shoes.

Some Fleeting Good, That Mocks Me With The View.

Man Little Knows What Calamities Are Beyond His Patience To Bear Till He Tries Them; As In Ascending The Heights Of Ambition, Which Look Bright From Below, Every Step We Rise Shows Us Some New And Gloomy Prospect Of Hidden Disappointment; So In Our Descent From The Summits Of Pleasure, Though The Vale Of Misery Below May Appear, At First, Dark And Gloomy, Yet The Busy Mind, Still Attentive To Its Own Amusement, Finds, As We Descend, Something To Flatter And To Please. Still As We Approach, The Darkest Objects Appear To Brighten, And The Mortal Eye Becomes Adapted To Its Gloomy Situation.