Lo! The Poor Indian, Whose

What Then Remains, But Well Our Power To Use, And Keep Good-humor Still Whate'er We Lose? And Trust Me, Dear, Good-humor Can Prevail, When Airs, And Flights, And Screams, And Scolding Fail.

Monuments, Like Men, Submit To Fate.

To Him No High, No Low, No Great, No Small; He Fills, He Bounds, Connects And Equals All!

A Field Of Glory Is A Field For All.

Amusement Is The Happiness Of Those Who Cannot Think.