Roused By The Lash Of

While I Am Compassed Round With Mirth, My Soul Lies Hid In Shades Of Grief, Whence, Like The Bird Of Night, With Half-shut Eyes, She Peeps, And Sickens At The Sight Of Day.

And After Hearing What Our Church Can Say, If Still Our Reason Runs Another Way, That Private Reason 'tis More Just To Curb, Than By Disputes The Public Peace Disturb; For Points Obscure Are Of Small Use To Learn, But Common Quiet Is Mankind's Concern.

Politicians Neither Love Nor Hate.

To Take Up Half On Trust, And Half To Try, Name It Not Faith But Bungling Bigotry.

A Coward Is The Kindest Animal; 'tis The Most Forgiving Creature In A Fight.