She Who Has Never Lov'd, Has Never

To Shoot At Crows Is Powder Flung Away.

I Hate The Man Who Builds His Name On Ruins Of Another's Fame. Thus Prudes, By Characters O'erthrown, Imagine That They Raise Their Own. Thus Scribblers, Covetous Of Praise, Think Slander Can Transplant The Bays.

The Fly That Sips Treacle Is Lost In The Sweets.

To Frame The Little Animal, Provide All The Gay Hues That Wait On Female Pride: Let Nature Guide Thee; Sometimes Golden Wire The Shining Bellies Of The Fly Require; The Peacock's Plumes Thy Tackle Must Not Fail, Nor The Dear Purchase Of The Sable's Tail.

My Lodging Is On The Cold Ground, And Hard, Very Hard, Is My Fare, But That Which Grieves Me More Is The Coldness Of My Dear.