Remorse, The Fatal Egg By Pleasure Laid,

Lived In His Saddle, Loved The Chase, The Course, And Always, Ere He Mounted, Kiss'd His Horse.

Judge Not The Lord By Feeble Sense, But Trust Him For His Grace; Behind A Frowning Providence He Hides A Smiling Face. His Purposes Will Ripen Fast, Unfolding Every Hour;the Bud May Have A Bitter Taste, But Sweet Will Be The Flow’r. Blind Unbelief Is Sure To Err And Scan His Work In Vain; God Is His Own Interpreter, And He Will Make It Plain.

The Parable Of The Prodigal Son, The Most Beautiful Fiction That Ever Was Invented; Our Saviour's Speech To His Disciples, With Which He Closed His Earthly Ministrations, Full Of The Sublimest Dignity And Tenderest Affection, Surpass Everything That I Ever Read; And Like The Spirit By Which They Were Dictated, Fly Directly To The Heart.

There Goes The Parson, Oh Illustrious Spark! And There, Scarce Less Illustrious, Goes The Clerk.

The Bud May Have A Bitter Taste, But Sweet Will Be The Flower.