Hope, Like The Gleaming Taper's Light, Adorns

Man Wants But Little Here Below, Nor Wants That Little Long.

I Fancy The Character Of A Poet Is In Every Country The Same,--fond Of Enjoying The Present, Careless Of The Future; His Conversation That Of A Man Of Sense, His Actions Those Of A Fool.

Well Had The Boding Tremblers Learn'd To Trace The Day's Disasters In His Morning Face; Full Well They Laugh'd With Counterfeited Glee At All His Jokes, For Many A Joke Had He; Full Well The Busy Whisper Circling Round Convey'd The Dismal Tidings When He Frown'd. Yet Was He Kind, Or If Severe In Aught, The Love He Bore To Learning Was In Fault; The Village All Declar'd How Much He Knew, 'twas Certain He Could Write And Cipher Too.

Our Chief Comforts Often Produce Our Greatest Anxieties, And The Increase In Our Possessions Is But An Inlet To New Disquietudes.

A French Woman Is A Perfect Architect In Dress: She Never, With Gothic Ignorance, Mixes The Orders; She Never Tricks Out A Snobby Doric Shape With Corinthian Finery; Or, To Speak Without Metaphor, She Conforms To General Fashion Only When It Happens Not To Be Repugnant To Private Beauty.