Boughs Are Daily Rifled By The Gusty

Pity It Is To Slay The Meanest Thing.

The Quaker Loves An Ample Brim, A Hat That Bows To No Salaam; And Dear The Beaver Is To Him As If It Never Made A Dam.

Spontaneously To God Should Turn The Soul, Like The Magnetic Needle To The Pole; But What Were That Intrinsic Virtue Worth, Suppose Some Fellow, With More Zeal Than Knowledge, Fresh From St. Andrew's College, Should Nail The Conscious Needle To The North?

A Moment's Thinking Is An Hour In Words.

A Certain Portion Of The Human Race Has Certainly A Taste For Being Diddled.