As If The World And They Were

God Moves In A Mysterious Way, His Wonders To Perform. He Plants His Footsteps In The Sea, And Rides Upon The Storm.

Knowledge, A Rude Unprofitable Mass, The Mere Materials With Which Wisdom Builds, Till Smoothed And Squared And Fitted To Its Place, Does But Encumber Whom It Seems To Enrich. Knowledge Is Proud That He Has Learned So Much; Wisdom Is Humble That He Knows No More.

Mansions Once Knew Their Own Masters, And Laborious Hinds, That Had Surviv'd The Father, Serv'd The Son. Now The Legitimate And Rightful Lord Is But A Transient Guest, Newly Arrived, And Soon To Be Supplanted. He That Saw His Patrimonial Timber Cast Its Leaf, Sells The Last Scantling, And Transfers The Price To Some Shrewd Sharper Ere It Buds Again. Estates Are Landscapes, Gazed Upon Awhile, Then Advertised And Auctioneer'd Away.

Thieves At Home Must Hang; But He That Puts Into His Overgorged And Bloated Purse The Wealth Of Indian Provinces, Escapes.

There Goes The Parson, Oh Illustrious Spark! And There, Scarce Less Illustrious, Goes The Clerk.