Don't Let Us Make Imaginary

He Makes A Very Handsome Corpse And Becomes His Coffin Prodigiously.

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.

I Chose My Wife, As She Did Her Wedding Gown, For Qualities That Would Wear Well.

O Luxury! Thou Curst By Heaven's Decree!

Thus Let Me Hold Thee To My Heart, And Every Care Resign: And We Shall Never, Never Part, My Life-my All That's Mine!