A Saint In Crape Is Twice A

Heaven Gave To Woman The Peculiar Grace To Spin, To Weep, And Cully Human Race.

Slave To No Sect, Who Takes No Private Road, But Looks Through Nature Up To Nature's God.

Of Little Use, The Man You May Suppose, Who Says In Verse What Others Say In Prose; Yet Let Me Show A Poet's Of Some Weight, And (though No Soldier) Useful To The State, What Will A Child Learn Sooner Than A Song? What Better Teach A Foreigner The Tongue? What's Long Or Short, Each Accent Where To Place And Speak In Public With Some Sort Of Grace?

A Pear-tree Planted Nigh: 'twas Charg'd With Fruit That Made A Goodly Show, And Hung With Dangling Pears Was Every Bough.

Fine Sense And Exalted Sense Are Not Half So Useful As Common Sense.