't Was Good Advice, And Meant, My

When Winter Stern, His Gloomy Front Uprears, A Sable Void The Barren Earth Appears; The Meads No More Their Former Verdure Boast, Fast-bound Their Streams, And All Their Beauty Lost; The Herds, The Flocks, In Icy Garments Mourn, And Wildly Murmur For The Spring's Return; From Snow-topp'd Hills The Whirlwinds Keenly Blow, Howl Through The Woods, And Pierce The Vales Below, Through The Sharp Air A Flaky Torrent Flies, Mocks The Slow Sight, And Hides The Gloomy Skies.

Our Farmers Round, Well Pleased With Constant Gain, Like Other Farmers, Flourish And Complain.

Better To Love Amiss Than Nothing To Have Loved.

This, Books Can Do-nor This Alone; They Give New Views To Life, And Teach Us How To Live; They Soothe The Grieved, The Stubborn They Chastise; Fools They Admonish, And Confirm The Wise. Their Aid They Yield To All: They Never Shun The Man Of Sorrow, Nor The Wretch Undone; Unlike The Hard, The Selfish, And The Proud, They Fly Not Sullen From The Suppliant Crowd; Nor Tell To Various People Various Things, But Show To Subjects, What They Show To Kings.

Beauties, When Disposed To Sleep, Should From The Eye Of Keen Inspector Keep: The Lovely Nymph Who Would Her Swain Surprise, May Close Her Mouth, But Not Conceal Her Eyes; Sleep From The Fairest Face Some Beauty Takes, And All The Homely Features Homelier Makes.