Sure Men Were Born To Lie, And

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.

To Friendship Every Burden's Light.

The Careful Insect 'midst His Works I View, Now From The Flowers Exhaust The Fragrant Dew, With Golden Treasures Load His Little Thighs, And Steer His Distant Journey Through The Skies.

One Common Fate We Both Must Prove; You Die With Envy, I With Love.

You Can Only Be Called A Hypocrite If You Judge Others First.