Whoe'er He Be That Tells My Faults,

Heaven Gave To Woman The Peculiar Grace To Spin, To Weep, And Cully Human Race.

Drink Is The Feast Of Reason And The Flow Of Soul.

Not To Go Back Is Somewhat To Advance, And Men Must Walk, At Least, Before They Dance.

The Spider's Touch, How Exquisitely Fine! Feels At Each Thread, And Lives Along The Line.

Oft In Dreams Invention We Bestow To Change A Flounce Or Add A Furbelow.