Feed The Musician, And He's

Books Cannot Always Please, However Good; Minds Are Not Ever Craving For Their Food.

Experience Finds Few Of The Scenes That Lively Hope Designs.

Who Calls A Lawyer Rogue, May Find, Too Lateupon One Of These Depends His Whole Estate.

When Winter Stern, His Gloomy Front Uprears, A Sable Void The Barren Earth Appears; The Meads No More Their Former Verdure Boast, Fast-bound Their Streams, And All Their Beauty Lost; The Herds, The Flocks, In Icy Garments Mourn, And Wildly Murmur For The Spring's Return; From Snow-topp'd Hills The Whirlwinds Keenly Blow, Howl Through The Woods, And Pierce The Vales Below, Through The Sharp Air A Flaky Torrent Flies, Mocks The Slow Sight, And Hides The Gloomy Skies.

Oh, Conscience! Conscience! Man's Most Faithful Friend, Him Canst Thou Comfort, Ease, Relieve, Defend; But If He Will Thy Friendly Checks Forego, Thou Art, Oh! Woe For Me, His Deadliest Foe!