Fools May Our Scorn, Not Envy, Raise.

Around The Steel No Tortur'd Worm Shall Twine, No Blood Of Living Insect Stain My Line; Let Me, Less Cruel, Cast The Feather'd Hook, With Pliant Rod Athwart The Pebbled Brook, Silent Along The Mazy Margin Stray, And With The Fur-wrought Fly Delude The Prey.

The Luxury Of Doing Good Surpasses Every Other Personal Enjoyment.

In Beauty Faults Conspicuous Grow; The Smallest Speck Is Seen On Snow.

What Will Not Luxury Taste? Earth, Sea, And Air, Are Daily Ransack'd For The Bill Of Fare. Blood Stuffed In Skins Is British Christians' Food, And France Robs Marshes Of The Croaking Brood.

Give Me, Kind Heaven, A Private Station, A Mind Serene For Contemplation.