One Cannot Say He Wanted Wit, But

Fortune's Unjust; She Ruins Oft The Brave, And Him Who Should Be Victor, Makes The Slave.

And, Dying, Bless The Hand That Gave The Blow.

Pity Melts The Mind To Love.

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.

For Truth Has Such A Face And Such A Mien, As To Be Loved Needs Only To Be Seen.