Wit, Who Never Once Forgave A Brother,

The Virtuous To Those Mansions Go Where Pleasures Unembitter'd Flow, Where, Leading Up A Jocund Band, Vigor And Youth Dance Hand In Hand, Whilst Zephyr, With Harmonious Gales, Pipes Softest Music Through The Vales, And Spring And Flora, Gaily Crown'd, With Velvet Carpet Spread The Ground; With Livelier Blush Where Roses Bloom, And Every Shrub Expires Perfume.

No Tribute Is Laid On Castles In The Air.

The Scots Are Poor, Cries Surly English Pride; True Is The Charge, Nor By Themselves Denied. Are They Not Then In Strictest Reason Clear, Who Wisely Come To Mend Their Fortunes Here?

Knaves Starve Not In The Land Of Fools.

What Is This World?--a Term Which Men Have Got, To Signify Not One In Ten Knows What; A Term, Which With No More Precision Passes To Point Out Herds Of Men Than Herds Of Asses; In Common Use No More It Means, We Find, Than Many Fools In Same Opinions Joined.