That Gloomy Outside, Like A Rusty Chest,

Raw In The Fields The Rude Militia Swarms, Mouth Without Hands; Maintained At Vast Expense, In Peace A Charge, In War A Weak Defence.

Virgil, Above All Poets, Had A Stock Which I May Call Almost Inexhaustible, Of Figurative, Elegant, And Sounding Words.

Her Wit Was More Than Man, Her Innocence A Child.

Satire Is A Kind Of Poetry In Which Human Vices Are Reprehended.

'tis A Good Thing To Laugh At Any Rate; And If A Straw Can Tickle A Man, It Is An Instrument Of Happiness.