All Affectation; 'tis My Perfect Scorn; Object

My Soul Is Sick With Every Day's Report Of Wrong And Outrage With Which Earth Is Filled.

Mansions Once Knew Their Own Masters, And Laborious Hinds, That Had Surviv'd The Father, Serv'd The Son. Now The Legitimate And Rightful Lord Is But A Transient Guest, Newly Arrived, And Soon To Be Supplanted. He That Saw His Patrimonial Timber Cast Its Leaf, Sells The Last Scantling, And Transfers The Price To Some Shrewd Sharper Ere It Buds Again. Estates Are Landscapes, Gazed Upon Awhile, Then Advertised And Auctioneer'd Away.

In A Fleshly Tomb, I Am Buried Above Ground.

No Wisdom That She May Gain By Experience And Reflection Hereafter, Will Compensate The Loss Of Her Present Hilarity.

Those Flimsy Webs That Break As Soon As Wrought, Attain Not To The Dignity Of Thought.