What Is It But A Map Of

Forgot The Blush That Virgin Fears Impart To Modest Cheeks, And Borrowed One From Art.

Remorse, The Fatal Egg By Pleasure Laid, In Every Bosom Where Her Nest Is Made, Hatched By The Beams Of Truth, Denies Him Rest, And Proves A Raging Scorpion In His Breast.

The Cares Of Today Are Seldom Those Of Tomorrow.

Did Charity Prevail, The Press Would Prove A Vehicle Of Virtue, Truth, And Love.

Is Base In Kind, And Born To Be A Slave.