Worth Makes The Man, And

In A Sadly Pleasing Strain, Let The Warbling Lute Complain.

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

In Lazy Apathy Let Stoics Boast, Their Virtue Fix'd: 't Is Fix'd As In A Frost; Contracted All, Retiring To The Breast; But Strength Of Mind Is Exercise, Not Rest.

The Lights And Shades, Whose Well-accorded Strife Gives All The Strength And Color Of Our Life.

The Life Of A Wit Is A Warfare Upon Earth.