Envy Will Merit, As Its Shade, Pursue

Virtue, I Grant You, Is An Empty Boast; But Shall The Dignity Of Vice Be Lost?

As Some To Church Repair, Not For The Doctrine, But The Music There. These Equal Syllables Alone Require, Though Oft The Ear The Open Vowels Tire While Expletives Their Feeble Aid Do Join, And Ten Low Words Oft Creep In One Dull Line.

Where Grows?--where Grows It Not? If Vain Our Toil, We Ought To Blame The Culture, Not The Soil.

Bear, Like The Turk, No Brother Near The Throne.

I Am His Highness' Dog At Kew; Pray Tell Me, Sir, Whose Dog Are You?