Built God A Church And Laughed His

An Epigram Is But A Feeble Thing - With Straw In Tail, Stuck There By Way Of Sting.

The Bud May Have A Bitter Taste, But Sweet Will Be The Flower.

Tea - The Cups That Cheer But Not Inebriate.

He That Attends To His Interior Self, That Has A Heart, And Keeps It; Has A Mind That Hungers, And Supplies It; And Who Seeks A Social, Not A Dissipated Life, Has Business.

All Flesh Is Grass. And All Its Glory Fades Like The Fair Flower Dishevell'd In The Wind; Riches Have Wings, And Grandeur Is A Dream; The Man We Celebrate Must Find A Tomb, And We That Worship Him, Ignoble Graves.