Superstition Is The Spleen Of The Soul.

In The Nice Bee, What Sense So Subtly True From Pois'nous Herbs Extracts The Healing Dew?

Fondly We Think We Honor Merit Then, When We But Praise Ourselves In Other Men.

If A Man's Character Is To Be Abused There's Nobody Like A Relative To Do The Business.

Hear How The Birds, On Ev'ry Blooming Spray, With Joyous Musick Wake The Dawning Day.

To The Elysian Shades Dismiss My Soul, Where No Carnation Fades.