The Grave Unites; Where E'en The Great

If Faith Itself Has Different Dresses Worn, What Wonder Modes In Wit Should Take Their Turn?

Oh! If To Dance All Night, And Dress All Day, Charm'd The Small-pox, Or Chas'd Old Age Away; . . . . To Patch, Nay Ogle, Might Become A Saint, Nor Could It Sure Be Such A Sin To Paint.

A King May Be A Tool, A Thing Of Straw; But If He Serves To Frighten Our Enemies, And Secure Our Property, It Is Well Enough; A Scarecrow Is A Thing Of Straw, But It Protects The Corn.

The Dull Flat Falsehood Serves For Policy, And In The Cunning, Truth's Itself A Lie.

The Lot Of Man - To Suffer And To Die.