And The Weak Soul, Within Itself Unbless'd,

Girls Like To Be Played With And Rumpled A Little Too Sometimes.

Silence Gives Consent.

Little Things Are Great To Little Men.

Conscience Is A Coward, And Those Faults It Has Not Strength Enough To Prevent It Seldom Has Justice Enough To Accuse.

Blest Be That Spot, Where Cheerful Guests Retire To Pause From Toil, And Trim Their Evening Fire; Blest That Abode, Where Want And Pain Repair, And Every Stranger Finds A Ready Chair Blest Be Those Feasts With Simple Plenty Crown'd, Where All The Ruddy Family Around Laugh At The Jest Or Pranks, That Never Fail, Or Sigh With Pity At Some Mournful Tale, Or Press The Bashful Stranger To His Food, And Learn The Luxury Of Doing Good.