The Frenchman, Easy, Debonair, And

Reasoning At Every Step He Treads, Man Yet Mistakes His Way, Whilst Meaner Things, Whom Instinct Leads, Are Rarely Known To Stray.

I Was A Poet Too; But Modern Taste Is So Refined And Delicate And Chaste, That Verse, Whatever Fire The Fancy Warms, Without A Creamy Smoothness Has No Charms. Thus, All Success Depending On An Ear, And Thinking I Might Purchase It Too Dear, If Sentiment Were Sacrific'd To Sound, And Truth Cut Short To Make A Period Round, I Judg'd A Man Of Sense Could Scarce Do Worse Than Caper In The Morris-dance Of Verse.

What Is There In The Vale Of Lifehalf So Delightful As A Wife;when Friendship, Love And Peace Combineto Stamp The Marriage-bond Divine?

What We Admire We Praise; And When We Praise, Advance It Into Notice, That Its Worth Acknowledged, Others May Admire It Too.

How Fleet Is A Glance Of The Mind! Compared With The Speed Of Its Flight, The Tempest Itself Lags Behind, And The Swift-winged Arrows Of Light.