Beauty Draws Us With A Single Hair.

The Hog That Ploughs Not, Not Obeys Thy Call, Lives On The Labours Of This Lord Of All.

A Brave Man Struggling In The Storms Of Fate, And Greatly Falling With A Falling State.

In A Sadly Pleasing Strain, Let The Warbling Lute Complain.

Authors Are Partial To Their Wit, 'tis True, But Are Not Critics To Their Judgment, Too?

Nothing Is More Certain Than Much Of The Force; As Well As Grace, Of Arguments Or Instructions Depends Their Conciseness.