Trade's Proud Empire Hastes To Swift Decay.

Sweet Was The Sound, When Oft, At Evening's Close, Up Yonder Hill The Village Murmur Rose; There As I Passed, With Careless Steps And Slow, The Mingling Notes Came Soften'd From Below; The Swain Responsive As The Milkmaid Sung, The Sober Herd That Low'd To Meet Their Young; The Noisy Geese That Gabbled O'er The Pool, The Playful Children Just Let Loose From School; The Watch-dog's Voice That Bay'd The Whispering Wind, And The Loud Laugh That Spoke The Vacant Mind; These All In Sweet Confusion Sought The Shade, And Fill'd Each Pause The Nightingale Had Made.

And Fools Who Came To Scoff Remain'd To Pray.

Philosophy Can Add To Our Happiness In No Other Manner But By Diminishing Our Misery; It Should Not Pretend To Increase Our Present Stock, But Make Us Economists Of What We Are Possessed Of. Happy Were We All Born Philosophers; All Born With A Talent Of Thus Dissipating Our Own Cares By Spreading Them Upon All Mankind.

The True Use Of Speech Is Not So Much To Express Our Wants As To Conceal Them.

As For Disappointing Them I Should Not So Much Mind; But I Can't Abide To Disappoint Myself.