Who Hath Not Heard The Rich Complain

Variety's The Source Of Joy Below, From Whence Still Fresh-revolving Pleasures Flow, In Books And Love The Mind One End Pursues, And Only Change The Expiring Flames Renews.

't Is Woman That Seduces All Mankind; By Her We First Were Taught The Wheedling Arts.

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.

Fools May Our Scorn, Not Envy, Raise. For Envy Is A Kind Of Praise.

The Sun Was Set; The Night Came On Apace, And Falling Dews Bewet Around The Place; The Bat Takes Airy Rounds On Leathern Wings, And The Hoarse Owl His Woeful Dirges Sings.