One Writer, For Instance, Excels At A

Whichever Way We Look The Prospect Is Disagreeable. Behind, We Have Left Pleasures We Shall Never Enjoy, And Therefore Regret; And Before, We See Pleasures Which We Languish To Possess, And Are Consequently Uneasy Till We Possess Them.

Is It That Nature, Attentive To The Preservation Of Mankind, Increases Our Wishes To Live, While She Lessens Our Enjoyments, And As She Robs The Senses Of Every Pleasure, Equips Imag-ination In The Spoil?

The Hours We Pass With Happy Prospects In View Are More Pleasing Than Those Crowded With Fruition.

Embosom'd In The Deep Where Holland Lies. Methinks Her Patient Sons Before Me Stand, Where The Broad Ocean Leans Against The Land.

Well Had The Boding Tremblers Learned To Trace The Day's Disasters In His Morning Face.