Whose Lenient Sorrows Find Relief, Whose Joys

Honour Is A Homicide And A Bloodspiller, That Gangs About Making Frays In The Street; But Credit Is A Decent Honest Man, That Sits At Hame And Makes The Pat Play.

If A Faultless Poem Could Be Produced, I Am Satisfied It Would Tire The Critics Themselves; And Annoy The Whole Reading World With The Spleen.

I Cannot Tell How The Truth May Be; I Say The Tale As It Was Said To Me.

We Do That In Our Zeal Our Calmer Moment Would Be Afraid To Answer.

A Few Drops Sprinkled On The Torch Of Love Make The Flame Blaze The Brighter.