Where Wealth Accumulates, Men Decay.

As In Some Irish Houses, Where Things Are So-so, One Gammon Of Bacon Hangs Up For A Show; But, For Eating A Rasher Of What They Take Pride In, They'd As Soon Think Of Eating The Pan It Is Fried In.

A Book May Be Very Amusing With Numerous Errors, Or It May Be Very Dull Without A Single Absurdity.

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.

If You Don't Ask Me Questions, I Can't Give You An Untrue Answer.

Embosom'd In The Deep Where Holland Lies. Methinks Her Patient Sons Before Me Stand, Where The Broad Ocean Leans Against The Land.