Hope Is Such A Bait, It Covers

But Times Are Alter'd; Trade's Unfeeling Train Usurp The Land, And Dispossess The Swain; Along The Lawn, Where Scatter'd Hamlets Rose, Unwieldy Wealth And Cumbrous Pomp Repose.

A Man He Was To All The Country Dear, And Passing Rich With Forty Pounds A Year.

One Man Is Born With A Silver Spoon In His Mouth, And The Other With A Wooden Ladle.

It Is Impossible To Combat Enthusiasm With Reason; For Though It Makes A Show Of Resistance, It Soon Eludes The Pressure, Refers You To Distinctions Not To Be Understood, And Feelings Which It Cannot Explain. A Man Who Would Endeavor To Fix An Enthusiast By Argument Might As Well Attempt To Spread Quicksilver With His Finger.

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.