All Other Goods By Fortune's Hand Are

Sickness Is A Sort Of Early Old Age; It Teaches Us A Diffidence In Our Earthly State.

In Pride, In Reas'ning Pride, Our Error Lies; All Quit Their Sphere And Rush Into The Skies. Pride Still Is Aiming At The Bless'd Abodes, Men Would Be Angels, Angels Would Be Gods.

Hills Peep O'er Hills, And Alps On Alps Arise.

The People's Voice Is Odd, It Is, And It Is Not, The Voice Of God.

She Went From Opera, Park, Assembly, Play, To Morning Walks, And Prayers Three Hours A Day. To Part Her Time 'twixt Reading And Bohea, To Muse, And Spill Her Solitary Tea, Or O'er Cold Coffee Trifle With The Spoon, Count The Slow Clock, And Dine Exact At Noon.