... She, That Will With

But Oars Alone Can Ne'er Prevail To Reach The Distant Coast; The Breath Of Heaven Must Swell The Sail, Or All The Toil Is Lost.

All Affectation; 'tis My Perfect Scorn; Object Of My Implacable Disgust.

I Crown Thee King Of Intimate Delights, Fire-side Enjoyments, Home-born Happiness, And All The Comforts That The Lowly Roof Of Undisturb'd Retirement, And The Hours Of Long Uninterrupted Ev'ning, Know.

With Spots Quadrangular Of Diamond Form, Ensanguined Hearts, Clubs Typical Of Strife, And Spades, The Emblems Of Untimely Graves.

Heaven Speed The Canvas, Gallantly Unfurl'd, To Furnish And Accommodate A World, To Give The Pole The Produce Of The Sun, And Knit The Unsocial Climates Into One.