Remorse, The Fatal Egg That Pleasure Laid.

The Statesman, Lawyer, Merchant, Man Of Trade Pants For The Refuge Of Some Rural Shade, Where All His Long Anxieties Forgot Amid The Charms Of A Sequester'd Spot, Or Recollected Only To Gild O'er And Add A Smile To What Was Sweet Before, He May Possess The Joys He Thinks He Sees, Lay His Old Age Upon The Lap Of Ease, Improve The Remnant Of His Wasted Span. And Having Lived A Trifler, Die A Man.

She That Asks Her Dear Five Hundred Friends, Contemns Them All, And Hates Their Coming.

Blest Be The Art That Can Immortalize.

But Conversation, Choose What Theme We May, And Chiefly When Religion Leads The Way, Should Flow, Like Waters After Summer Show'rs, Not As If Raised By Mere Mechanic Powers.

Just Knows, And Knows No More, Her Bible True,- A Truth The Brilliant Frenchman Never Knew.