Greece, Sound, Thy Homer's, Rome

The Statesman, Lawyer, Merchant, Man Of Trade Pants For The Refuge Of Some Rural Shade, Where All His Long Anxieties Forgot Amid The Charms Of A Sequester'd Spot, Or Recollected Only To Gild O'er And Add A Smile To What Was Sweet Before, He May Possess The Joys He Thinks He Sees, Lay His Old Age Upon The Lap Of Ease, Improve The Remnant Of His Wasted Span. And Having Lived A Trifler, Die A Man.

Our Love Is Principle, And Has Its Root In Reason, Is Judicious, Manly, Free.

The Spleen Is Seldom Felt Where Flora Reigns; The Low'ring Eye, The Petulance, The Frown, And Sullen Sadness, That O'ershade, Distort, And Mar The Face Of Beauty, When No Cause For Such Immeasurable Woe Appears; These Flora Banishes, And Gives The Fair Sweet Smiles, And Bloom Less Transient Than Her Own.

The Parson Knows Enough Who Knows A Duke.

The Man To Solitude Accustom'd Long, Perceives In Everything That Lives A Tongue; Not Animals Alone, But Shrubs And Trees Have Speech For Him, And Understood With Ease, After Long Drought When Rains Abundant Fall, He Hears The Herbs And Flowers Rejoicing All.