Fattened In Vice, So Callous And So

For Granting We Have Sinned, And That The Offence Of Man Is Made Against Omnipotence, Some Price That Bears Proportion Must Be Paid, And Infinite With Infinite Be Weighed.

The Poorest Of The Sex Have Still An Itch To Know Their Fortunes, Equal To The Rich. The Dairy-maid Inquires, If She Shall Take The Trusty Tailor, And The Cook Forsake.

Sure There's Contagion In The Tears Of Friends.

Love Reckons Hours For Months, And Days For Years; And Every Little Absence Is An Age.

When Misfortune Is Asleep, Let No One Wake Her.