But Poverty, With Most Who Whimper Forth

Where Penury Is Felt The Thought Is Chain'd, And Sweet Colloquial Pleasures Are But Few.

A Fool Must Now And Then Be Right, By Chance

Some Drill And Bore The Solid Earth, And From The Strata There Extract A Register, By Which We Learn, That He Who Made It, And Reveal'd Its Date To Moses, Was Mistaken In Its Age.

I Pity Them Greatly, But I Must Be Mum, For How Could We Do Without Sugar And Rum?

Religion, Richest Favor Of The Skies.