Absence Of Occupation Is Not Rest.

O Solitude, Where Are The Charms That Sages Have Seen In Thy Face? Better Dwell In The Midst Of Alarms, Than Reign In This Horrible Place.

Dejection Of Spirits, Which May Have Prevented Many A Man From Becoming An Author, Made Me One. I Find Constant Employment Necessary, And Therefore Take Care To Be Constantly Employed. . . . When I Can Find No Other Occupation, I Think; And When I Think, I Am Very Apt To Do It In Rhyme.

Defend Me, Therefore, Common Sense, Say From Reveries So Airy, From The Toil Of Dropping Buckets Into Empty Wells, And Growing Old In Drawing Nothing Up.

When Scandal Has New-minted An Old Lie, Or Tax'd Invention For A Fresh Supply, 'tis Call'd A Satire, And The World Appears Gathering Around It With Erected Ears; A Thousand Names Are Toss'd Into The Crowd, Some Whisper'd Softly, And Some Twang'd Aloud, Just As The Sapience Of An Author's Brain, Suggests It Safe Or Dangerous To Be Plain.

Misery Still Delights To Trace Its Semblance In Another's Case.