Patience Is Sorrow's Salve.

No Tribute Is Laid On Castles In The Air.

Whom Drink Made Wits, Though Nature Made Them Fools.

Patience Is Sorrow's Salve.

Greatly His Foes He Dreads, But More His Friends; He Hurts Me Most Who Lavishly Commends.

England, A Happy Land We Know, Where Follies Naturally Grow, Where Without Culture They Arise, And Tow'r Above The Common Size.