The Dog, To Gain Some Private Ends,

O Friendship! Thou Fond Soother Of The Human Breast, To Thee We Fly In Every Calamity; To Thee The Wretched Seek For Succor; On Thee The Care-tired Son Of Misery Fondly Relies; From Thy Kind Assistance The Unfortunate Always Hopes Relief, And May Be Sure Of--disappointment.

Though Very Poor, May Still Be Very Blest.

In A Polite Age Almost Every Person Becomes A Reader, And Receives More Instruction From The Press Than The Pulpit.

No One But A Fool Would Measure Their Satisfaction By What The World Thinks Of It.

And E'en While Fashion's Brightest Arts Decoy, The Heart Distrusting Asks If This Be Joy.