Take Heed Lest Passion Sway Thy Judgement

Swinish Gluttony Never Looks To Heaven Amidst Its Gorgeous Feast; But With Besotted, Base Ingratitude, Cravens And Blasphemes His Feeder.

That Power Which Erring Men Call Chance.

And Looks Commercing With The Skies, Thy Rapt Soul Sitting In Thine Eyes.

Smiles From Reason Flow, To Brute Deny'd, And Are Of Love The Food.

This Horror Will Grow Mild, This Darkness Light; Besides What Hope The Never-ending Flight Of Future Days May Bring, What Chance, What Change Worth Waiting--since Our Present Lot Appears For Happy Though But Ill, For Ill Not Worst, If We Procure Not To Ourselves More Woe.