Who All In Raptures Their

The Proud Will Sooner Lose Than Ask Their Way.

Most Of Those Evils We Poor Mortals Know From Doctors And Imagination Flow.

To Copy Beauty Forfeits All Pretense To Fame; To Copy Faults Is Want Of Sense

The Villager, Born Humbly And Bred Hard, Content His Wealth, And Poverty His Guard, In Action Simply Just, In Conscience Clear, By Guilt Untainted, Undisturb'd By Fear, His Means But Scanty, And His Wants But Few, Labor His Business, And His Pleasure Too, Enjoys More Comforts In A Single Hour Than Ages Give The Wretch Condemn'd To Power.

Little Do Such Men Know The Toil, The Pains, The Daily, Nightly Racking Of The Brains, To Range The Thoughts, The Matter To Digest, To Cull Fit Phrases, And Reject The Rest.