In Beauty Faults Conspicuous Grow; The Smallest

Sure Men Were Born To Lie, And Women To Believe Them!

Look Round, The Wrecks Of Play Behold; Estates Dismember'd, Mortgaged, Sold! Their Owners Now To Jails Confin'd, Show Equal Poverty Of Mind.

I Never, With Important Air, In Conversation Overbear. . . . . My Tongue Within My Lips I Rein; For Who Talks Much Must Talk In Vain.

Some Folks Of Cider Make A Rout And Cider's Well Enough No Doubt When Better Liquors Fail; But Wine, That's Richer, Better Still, Ev'n Wine Itself (deny't Who Will) Must Yield To Nappy Ale

Is There No Hope? The Sick Man Said, The Silent Doctor Shook His Head, And Took His Leave With Signs Of Sorrow, Despairing Of His Fee To-morrow.