That All Men Would Be

Our Farmers Round, Well Pleased With Constant Gain, Like Other Farmers, Flourish And Complain.

Men Famed For Wit, Of Dangerous Talents Vain, Treat Those Of Common Parts With Proud Disdain; The Powers That Wisdom Would, Improving, Hide, They Blaze Abroad, With Inconsid'rate Pride; While Yet But Mere Probationers For Fame, They Seize The Honor They Should Then Disclaim: Honor So Hurried To The Light Must Fade, The Lasting Laurels Nourish In The Shade.

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!

With Awe, Around These Silent Walks I Tread; These Are The Lasting Mansions Of The Dead.

In General Satire, Every Man Perceives A Slight Attack, Yet Neither Fears Nor Grieves.