Books cannot always please, however good

Oh, rather give me commentators plain, Who with no deep researches vex the brain; Who from the dark and doubtful love to run, And hold their glimmering tapers to the sun.

A master passion is the love of news.

Where Plenty smiles - alas! she smiles for few, And those who taste not, yet behold her store, Are as the slaves that dig the golden ore, The wealth around them makes them doubly poor.

Our farmers round, well pleased with constant gain, Like other farmers, flourish and complain.

The murmuring poor, who will not fast in peace.

Her air, her manners, all who saw admir'd; Courteous though coy, and gentle though retir'd; The joy of youth and health her eyes display'd, And ease of heart her every look convey'd.