To Shoot At Crows Is Powder Flung

Envy Is A Kind Of Praise.

What Will Not Luxury Taste? Earth, Sea, And Air, Are Daily Ransack'd For The Bill Of Fare. Blood Stuffed In Skins Is British Christians' Food, And France Robs Marshes Of The Croaking Brood.

My Lodging Is On The Cold Ground, And Hard, Very Hard, Is My Fare, But That Which Grieves Me More Is The Coldness Of My Dear.

I Never, With Important Air, In Conversation Overbear. . . . . My Tongue Within My Lips I Rein; For Who Talks Much Must Talk In Vain.

A Wolf Eats Sheep But Now And Then; Ten Thousands Are Devour'd By Men. An Open Foe May Prove A Curse, But A Pretend Friend Is Worse.