Oh To Have A Lodge In Some

Built God A Church And Laughed His Word To Scorn.

Spring Hangs Her Infant Blossoms On The Trees, Rock'd In The Cradle Of The Western Breeze.

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.

Though Peace Be Made, Yet It's Interest That Keep Peace.

There Is A Mixture Of Evil In Everything We Do; Indulgence Encourages Us To Encroach, While We Crabbe Exercise The Rights Of Children, We Become Childish.