A Sly Old Fish, Too Cunning For

But Jest Apart--what Virtue Canst Thou Trace In That Broad Trim That Hides Thy Sober Face? Does That Long-skirted Drab, That Over-nice And Formal Clothing, Prove A Scorn Of Vice? Then For Thine Accent--what In Sound Can Be So Void Of Grace As Dull Monotony?

I Paint The Cot, As Truth Will Paint It, And As Bards Will Not.

Oh How The Passions, Insolent And Strong, Bear Our Weak Minds Their Rapid Course Along; Make Us The Madness Of Their Will Obey; Then Die And Leave Us To Our Griefs As Prey!

Virtues Neglected Then, Adored Become, And Graces Slighted, Blossom On The Tomb.

Secrets With Girls, Like Guns With Boys, Are Never Valued Till They Make A Noise.