Solitude Begets Whimsies.

In Short I Will Part With Anything For You But You.

See How That Pair Of Billing Doves With Open Murmurs Own Their Loves And, Heedless Of Censorious Eyes, Pursue Their Unpolluted Joys: No Fears Of Future Want Molest The Downy Quiet Of Their Nest.

The Pious Farmer, Who Ne'er Misses Pray'rs, With Patience Suffers Unexpected Rain; He Blesses Heav'n For What Its Bounty Spares, And Sees, Resign'd, A Crop Of Blighted Grain. But, Spite Of Sermons, Farmers Would Blaspheme, If A Star Fell To Set Their Thatch On Flame.

We Are No More Free Agents Than The Queen Of Clubs When She Victoriously Takes Prisoner The Knave Of Hearts.

I Am In Perfect Health, And Hear It Said I Look Better Than Ever I Did In My Life, Which Is One Of Those Lies One Is Always Glad To Hear.