WE may consider human life as a garden, in which roses and are , and in which we often feel the sting of the wounding , while we enjoy the of the blooming rose. Those of delight, entwined with the woodbine and jessamine, under whose friendly we seek shelter from the noon-day sun, frequently are the of snakes, , and venomous creatures, which wound us in those unguarded scenes of delight.  
As the year has its seasons, and winter and summer are constantly in pursuit of each other; so changeable likewise is the condition of mortals; and, as the elements are frequently disturbed by storms, hurricanes, and tempests, so is the human mind frequently and indisposed, till the sun-shine of reason and philosophy bursts and the gloom. Murmuring , purling streams, and , whatever the fictions of a imagination may have advanced, are not always the seat of unmingled pleasure, nor the abode of uninterrupted happiness.
 
The hapless Florio pined away some months on the banks of the Severn: he complained of the cruelty of the lovely Anabella, and told his fond tale to the waters of that impetuous stream, which hurried along regardless of his plaints. He gathered the lilies of the field; but the lilies were not so fair as his Anabella, nor the fragrance of the blushing rose so sweet as her breath; the lambs were not so innocent, nor the sound of the tabor on the green half so as her voice. Time, however, has joined Florio and Anabella in the of , and the plaints of the swain are changed. The of the is vanished, and what he but lately considered as the only object of his sublunary pursuit, he now with coolness, ............