Could A Man Live By It, It

Near Yonder Thorn, That Lifts Its Head On High, Where Once The Sign-post Caught The Passing Eye, Low Lies That House Where Nut-brown Draughts Inspired, Where Graybeard Mirth And Smiling Toil Retired, Where Village Statesmen Talk'd With Looks Profound, And News Much Older Than Their Ale Went Round.

And Still They Gazed, And Still The Wonder Grew, That One Small Head Could Carry All He Knew.

Silence Is Become His Mother Tongue.

The Dog, To Gain Some Private Ends, Went Mad, And Bit The Man.

Whatever Mitigates The Woes, Or Increases The Happiness Of Others, Is A Just Criterion Of Goodness; And Whatever Injures Society At Large, Or Any Individual In It, Is A Criterion Of Iniquity.