There Is No Mind So Weak And

Good Is Done By Degrees.

A Sly Old Fish, Too Cunning For The Hook.

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

Void Of All Honor, Avaricious, Rash, The Daring Tribe Compound Their Boasted Trash Tincture Of Syrup, Lotion, Drop, Or Pill; All Tempt The Sick To Trust The Lying Bill.

Old Peter Grimes Made Fishing His Employ; His Wife He Cabined With Him And His Boy, And Seemed That Life Laborious To Enjoy.