Wit, Who Never Once Forgave

Knaves Starve Not In The Land Of Fools.

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.

The Danger Chiefly Lies In Acting Well; No Crime's So Great As Daring To Excel.

When Satire Flies Abroad On Falsehood's Wing, Short Is Her Life, And Impotent Her Sting; But When To Truth Allied, The Wound She Gives Sinks Deep, And To Remotest Ages Lives.

Nature, Through All Her Works, In Great Degree, Borrows A Blessing From Variety. Music Itself Her Needful Aid Requires To Rouse The Soul, And Wake Our Dying Fires.