A Master Passion Is The Love Of

Say, Ye Oppress'd By Some Fantastic Woes, Some Jarring Nerve That Baffles Your Repose; Who Press The Downy Couch, While Slaves Advance With Timid Eye, To Read The Distant Glance; Who With Sad Prayers The Weary Doctor Tease, To Name The Nameless Ever-new Disease; Who With Mock Patience Dire Complaints Endure, Which Real Pain And That Alone Can Cure; How Would Ye Bear In Real Pain To Lie, Despised, Neglected, Left Alone To Die? How Would Ye Bear To Draw Your Latest Breath, Where All That's Wretched Paves The Way For Death?

Men Famed For Wit, Of Dangerous Talents Vain, Treat Those Of Common Parts With Proud Disdain; The Powers That Wisdom Would, Improving, Hide, They Blaze Abroad, With Inconsid'rate Pride; While Yet But Mere Probationers For Fame, They Seize The Honor They Should Then Disclaim: Honor So Hurried To The Light Must Fade, The Lasting Laurels Nourish In The Shade.

Fortunes Are Made, If I The Facts May State-- Though Poor Myself, I Know The Fortunate: First, There's A Knowledge Of The Way From Whence Good Fortune Comes--and This Is Sterling Sense: Then Perseverance, Never To Decline The Chase Of Riches Till The Prey Is Thine; And Firmness Never To Be Drawn Away By Any Passion From That Noble Prey-- By Love, Ambition, Study, Travel, Fame, Or The Vain Hope That Lives Upon A Name.

What Is A Church? Let Truth And Reason Speak, They Would Reply, "the Faithful, Pure And Meek, From Christian Folds, The One Selected Race, Of All Professions, And In Every Place.

Lo! The Poor Toper Whose Untutored Sense, Sees Bliss In Ale, And Can With Wine Dispense; Whose Head Proud Fancy Never Taught To Steer, Beyond The Muddy Ecstasies Of Beer.