Drinking Is The Soldier's Pleasure.

For Thee, Sweet Month; The Groves Green Liveries Wear. If Not The First, The Fairest Of The Year; For Thee The Graces Lead The Dancing Hours, And Nature's Ready Pencil Paints The Flowers. When Thy Short Reign Is Past, The Feverish Sun The Sultry Tropic Fears, And Moves More Slowly On.

I Trade Both With The Living And The Dead, For The Enrichment Of Our Native Language.

Virtue In Distress, And Vice In Triumph Make Atheists Of Mankind.

Whatever Is, Is In Its Causes Just.

Woman's Honor Is Nice As Ermine; It Will Not Bear A Soil.