Die Of A Rose In Aromatic Pain.

Live Like Yourself, Was Soon My Lady's Word, And Lo! Two Puddings Smok'd Upon The Board.

No Silver Saints, By Dying Misers Giv'n, Here Brib'd The Rage Of Ill-requited Heav'n; But Such Plain Roofs As Piety Could Raise, And Only Vocal With The Maker's Praise.

And Binding Nature Fast In Fate, Left Free The Human Will.

If A Man's Character Is To Be Abused There's Nobody Like A Relative To Do The Business.

The Young Disease, That Must Subdue At Length, Grows With His Growth, And Strengthens With His Strength.