The Ambitious Are Forever Followed By Adulation

Near Yonder Copse, Where Once The Garden Smil'd, And Still Where Many A Garden Flower Grows Wild, There, Where A Few Torn Shrubs The Place Disclose, The Village Preacher's Modest Mansion Rose. A Man He Was To All The Country Dear, And Passing Rich With Forty Pounds A Year; Remote From Town's He Ran His Godly Race, Nor E'er Had Chang'd Nor Wish'd To Change His Place; Unskilful He To Fawn, Or Seek For Power, By Doctrines Fashion'd To The Varying Hour; Far Other Aims His Heart Had Learn'd To Prize. More Bent To Raise The Wretched Than To Rise.

All Is Not Gold That Glitters, Pleasure Seems Sweet, But Proves A Glass Of Bitters

Absence, Like Death, Sets A Seal On The Image Of Those We Love: We Cannot Realize The Intervening Changes Which Time May Have Effected.

As For Murmurs, Mother, We Grumble A Little Now And Then, To Be Sure; But There's No Love Lost Between Us.

Could A Man Live By It, It Were Not Unpleasant Employment To Be A Poet.