Sweet Is Pleasure After Pain.

She, Though In Full-blown Flower Of Glorious Beauty, Grows Cold Even In The Summer Of Her Age.

Rhyme Is The Rock On Which Thou Art To Wreck.

It Is Sufficient To Say, According To The Proverb, That Here Is God's Plenty.

To So Perverse A Sex All Grace Is Vain.

The Scum That Rises Upmost, When The Nation Boils.