I Always Get The Better When I

Near Yonder Copse, Where Once The Garden Smil'd, And Still Where Many A Garden Flower Grows Wild, There, Where A Few Torn Shrubs The Place Disclose, The Village Preacher's Modest Mansion Rose. A Man He Was To All The Country Dear, And Passing Rich With Forty Pounds A Year; Remote From Town's He Ran His Godly Race, Nor E'er Had Chang'd Nor Wish'd To Change His Place; Unskilful He To Fawn, Or Seek For Power, By Doctrines Fashion'd To The Varying Hour; Far Other Aims His Heart Had Learn'd To Prize. More Bent To Raise The Wretched Than To Rise.

Our Bounty, Like A Drop Of Water, Disappears, When Diffus'd Too Widely

[t]here Are Depths Of Thousands Of Miles Which Are Hidden From Our Inquiry. The Only Tidings We Have From Those Unfathomable Regions Are By Means Of Volcanoes, Those Burning Mountains That Seem To Discharge Their Materials From The Lowest Abysses Of The Earth.

The Volumes Of Antiquity, Like Medals, May Very Well Serve To Amuse The Curious, But The Works Of The Moderns, Like The Current Coin Of A Kingdom, Are Much Better For Immediate Use.

The Pictures Placed For Ornament And Use, The Twelve Good Rules, The Royal Game Of Goose.