For All Have Not The Gift Of

Tis Fate That Flings The Dice, And As She Flings Of Kings Makes Peasants, And Of Peasants Kings.

There Is A Pleasure In Being Mad, Which None But Madmen Know.

Ill Writers Are Usually The Sharpest Censors.

We By Art Unteach What Nature Taught.

The Poorest Of The Sex Have Still An Itch To Know Their Fortunes, Equal To The Rich. The Dairy-maid Inquires, If She Shall Take The Trusty Tailor, And The Cook Forsake.