He Hurts Me Most Who Lavishly Commends.

It Can't Be Nature, For It Is Not Sense.

Gipsies, Who Every Ill Can Cure, Except The Ill Of Being Poor Who Charms 'gainst Love And Agues Sell, Who Can In Hen-roost Set A Spell, Prepar'd By Arts, To Them Best Known To Catch All Feet Except Their Own, Who, As To Fortune, Can Unlock It, As Easily As Pick A Pocket.

Who To Patch Up His Fame, Or Fill His Purse, Still Pilfers Wretched Plans, And Makes Them Worse; Like Gypsies, Lest The Stolen Brat Be Known, Defacing First, Then Claiming For His Own.

Man And Wife, Coupled Together For The Sake Of Strife.

Weak Is That Throne, And In Itself Unsound, Which Takes Not Solid Virtue For Its Ground.