You Can Only Be Called A Hypocrite

Envy's A Sharper Spur Than Pay.

Fair Is The Marigold, For Pottage Meet.

Whence Is Thy Learning? Hath Thy Toil O'er Books Consumed The Midnight Oil?

In Beauty Faults Conspicuous Grow; The Smallest Speck Is Seen On Snow.

Is There No Hope? The Sick Man Said, The Silent Doctor Shook His Head, And Took His Leave With Signs Of Sorrow, Despairing Of His Fee To-morrow.