A Gen'rous Heart Repairs A Sland'rous Tongue.

Give Me Again My Hollow Tree A Crust Of Bread, And Liberty!

O Happiness! Our Being's End And Aim! Good, Pleasure, Ease, Content! Whate'er Thy Name: That Something Still Which Prompts The Eternal Sigh, For Which We Bear To Live, Or Dare To Die.

Let Fortune Do Her Worst, Whatever She Makes Us Lose, So Long As She Never Makes Us Lose Our Honesty And Our Independence.

Go, Wiser Thou! And In Thy Scale Of Sense Weigh Thy Opinion Against Providence.

What Woeful Stuff This Madrigal Would Be, In Some Starved Hackney Sonneteer, Or Me! But Let A Lord Once Own The Happy Lines, How The Wit Brightens! How The Style Refines!