In Indolent Vacuity Of Thought.

An Epigram Is But A Feeble Thing - With Straw In Tail, Stuck There By Way Of Sting.

All Truth Is Precious, If Not All Divine; And What Dilates The Powers Must Needs Refine.

Great Offices Will Have Great Talents, And God Gives To Every Man The Virtue, Temper, Understanding, Taste, That Lifts Him Into Life, And Lets Him Fall Just In The Niche He Was Ordained To Fill.

Restraining Prayer, We Cease To Fight; Prayer Keeps The Christian's Armor Bright; And Satan Trembles When He Sees The Weakest Saint Upon His Knees.

In Man Or Woman, But Far Most In Man, And Most Of All In Man That Ministers, And Serves The Altar, In My Soul I Loathe All Affectation. 'tis My Perfect Scorn: Object Of My Implacable Disgust.