No Tribute Is Laid On Castles In

Though Folly, Robed In Purple, Shines, Though Vice Exhausts Peruvian Mines, Yet Shall They Tremble And Turn Pale When Satire Wields Her Mighty Flail.

The Scots Are Poor, Cries Surly English Pride; True Is The Charge, Nor By Themselves Denied. Are They Not Then In Strictest Reason Clear, Who Wisely Come To Mend Their Fortunes Here?

It Can't Be Nature, For It Is Not Sense.

Wherever Waves Can Roll, And Winds Can Blow.

On The Four Aces Doom'd To Roll.