A Rusted Nail, Placed Near The Faithful

Love, To Her Ear, Was But A Name, Combin'd With Vanity And Shame; Her Hopes, Her Fears, Her Joys, Were All Bounded Within The Cloister Wall.

Some Feelings Are To Mortals Given With Less Of Earth In Them Than Heaven.

It Is A Great Disgrace To Religion, To Imagine That It Is An Enemy To Mirth And Cheerfulness, And A Severe Exacter Of Pensive Looks And Solemn Faces.

We Build Statues Out Of Snow, And Weep To See Them Melt.

O! Many A Shaft, At Random Sent, Finds Mark The Archer Little Meant! And Many A Word, At Random Spoken, May Soothe Or Wound A Heart That's Broken!