Music Is Inarticulate Poesy.

There Is A Pleasure In Being Mad, Which None But Madmen Know.

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.

They First Condemn That First Advised The Ill.

At Home The Hateful Names Of Parties Cease, And Factious Souls Are Wearied Into Peace.

The First Is The Law, The Last Prerogative.