Happy The Man Whose Wish And Care

Fix'd Like A Plant On His Peculiar Spot, To Draw Nutrition, Propagate And Rot.

I Am Satisfied To Trifle Away My Time, Rather Than Let It Stick By Me.

There Are Some Solitary Wretches Who Seem To Have Left The Rest Of Mankind, Only, As Eve Left Adam, To Meet The Devil In Private.

Oh, When Shall Britain, Conscious Of Her Claim, Stand Emulous Of Greek And Roman Fame? In Living Medals See Her Wars Enroll'd, And Vanquished Realms Supply Recording Gold?

Wit Is The Lowest Form Of Humor.