The murmuring poor, who will not fast in peace

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.

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.

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.

A master passion is the love of news.

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

The mind here exhibited is one untouched by pity, unstung by remorse, and uncorrected by shame; yet is this hardihood of temper and spirit broken by want, disease, solitude, and disappointment, and he becomes the victim of a distempered …