Events Of All Sorts Creep

There Is No Flesh In Man's Obdurate Heart; He Does Not Feel For Man.

Thieves At Home Must Hang; But He That Puts Into His Overgorged And Bloated Purse The Wealth Of Indian Provinces, Escapes.

Habits Are Soon Assumed; But When We Strive To Strip Them Off, 'tis Being Flayed Alive.

Not A Flower But Shows Some Touch, In Freckle, Streak Or Stain, Of His Unrivall'd Pencil. He Inspires Their Balmy Odors, And Imparts Their Hues, And Bathes Their Eyes With Nectar, And Includes In Grains As Countless As The Seaside Sands, The Forms With Which He Sprinkles All The Earth Happy Who Walks With Him!

He That Attends To His Interior Self, That Has A Heart, And Keeps It; Has A Mind That Hungers, And Supplies It; And Who Seeks A Social, Not A Dissipated Life, Has Business.