Wept O'er His Wounds, Or Tales Of

Turn, Gentle Hermit Of The Dale, And Guide My Lonely Way To Where Yon Taper Cheers The Vale With Hospitable Ray.

Silence Gives Consent.

The Person Whose Clothes Are Extremely Fine I Am Too Apt To Consider As Not Being Possessed Of Any Superiority Of Fortune, But Resembling Those Indians Who Are Found To Wear All The Gold They Have In The World In A Bob At The Nose.

Popular Glory Is A Perfect Coquette; Her Lovers Must Toil, Feel Every Inquietude, Indulge Every Caprice, And Perhaps At Last Be Jilted Into The Bargain. True Glory, On The Other Hand, Resembles A Woman Of Sense; Her Admirers Must Play No Tricks. They Feel No Great Anxiety, For They Are Sure In The End Of Being Rewarded In Proportion To Their Merit.

The Little Mind Who Loves Itself, Will Wr'te And Think With The Vulgar; But The Great Mind Will Be Bravely Eccentric, And Scorn The Beaten Road, From Universal Benevolence.