What Is It But A Map Of

Knowledge, A Rude Unprofitable Mass, The Mere Materials With Which Wisdom Builds, Till Smoothed And Squared And Fitted To Its Place, Does But Encumber Whom It Seems To Enrich. Knowledge Is Proud That He Has Learned So Much; Wisdom Is Humble That He Knows No More.

How Sweet, How Passing Sweet, Is Solitude! But Grant Me Still A Friend In My Retreat, Whom I May Whisper, Solitude Is Sweet.

They Fix Attention, Heedless Of Your Pain, With Oaths Like Rivets Forced Into The Brain; And E'en When Sober Truth Prevails Throughout, They Swear It, Till Affirmance Breeds A Doubt.

No Traveler E'er Reached That Blest Abode Who Found Not Thorns And Briers In His Road.

Far Happier Are The Dead Methinks Than They Who Look For Death And Fear It Every Day.