Mountains Interposed Make Enemies Of Nations, Who

And Diff'ring Judgments Serve But To Declare That Truth Lies Somewhere, If We Knew But Where.

The Frenchman, Easy, Debonair, And Brisk, Give Him His Lass, His Fiddle, And His Frisk, Is Always Happy, Reign Whoever May, And Laughs The Sense Of Mis'ry Far Away.

In Man Or Woman, But Far Most In Man, And Most Of All In Man That Ministers, And Serves The Altar, In My Soul I Loathe All Affectation. 'tis My Perfect Scorn: Object Of My Implacable Disgust.

He That Runs May Read.

For When Was Public Virtue To Be Found Where Private Was Not?