It Has All Been Most

Nature Is Seldom In The Wrong, Custom Always.

Solitude Begets Whimsies.

The Pious Farmer, Who Ne'er Misses Pray'rs, With Patience Suffers Unexpected Rain; He Blesses Heav'n For What Its Bounty Spares, And Sees, Resign'd, A Crop Of Blighted Grain. But, Spite Of Sermons, Farmers Would Blaspheme, If A Star Fell To Set Their Thatch On Flame.

True Knowledge Consists In Knowing Things, Not Words.

People Never Write Calmly But When They Write Indifferently.