Folly Ends Where Genuine Hope Begins.

England, With All Thy Faults I Love Thee Still, My Country!

Heaven Speed The Canvas, Gallantly Unfurl'd, To Furnish And Accommodate A World, To Give The Pole The Produce Of The Sun, And Knit The Unsocial Climates Into One.

The Mind, Relaxing Into Needful Sport, Should Turn To Writers Of An Abler Sort, Whose Wit Well Managed, And Whose Classic Style, Give Truth A Lustre, And Make Wisdom Smile.

His Wit Invites You By His Looks To Come, But When You Knock, It Never Is At Home.

I Pity Bashful Men, Who Feel The Pain Of Fancied Scorn And Undeserved Disdain, And Bear The Marks Upon A Blushing Face, Of Needless Shame, And Self-impos'd Disgrace.