And Each Blasphemer Quite Escape The Rod,

Fair Tresses Man's Imperial Race Ensnare; And Beauty Draws Us With A Single Hair.

Talk What You Will Of Taste, My Friend, You'll Find Two Of A Face As Soon As Of A Mind.

Every Woman Is At Heart A Rake.

Worth Makes The Man, And Want Of It The Fellow; The Rest Is All But Leather And Prunello.

See! From The Brake The Whirring Pheasant Springs, And Mounts Exulting On Triumphant Wings; Short Is His Joy! He Feels The Fiery Wound, Flutters In Blood, And Panting Beats The Ground.