There Are Come Critics So With Spleen

They Are At The End Of The Gallery; Retired To Their Tea And Scandal, According To Their Ancient Custom.

Music Has Charms To Soothe A Savage Breast, To Soften Rocks, Or Bend A Knotted Oak. I've Read That Things Inanimate Have Moved, And, As With Living Souls, Have Been Inform'd, By Magic Numbers And Persuasive Sound.

Men Are Apt To Offend ('tis True) Where They Find Most Goodness To Forgive.

I Came Up Stairs Into The World, For I Was Born In A Cellar.

I Nauseate Walking; 'tis A Country Diversion, I Loathe The Country.