The Life Of A Wit Is A

On Her White Breast A Sparkling Cross She Wore, Which Jews Might Kiss And Infidels Adore.

A Perfect Woman's But A Softer Man.

But Touch Me, And No Minister So Sore. Whoe'er Offends, At Some Unlucky Time Slides Into Verse, And Hitches In A Rhyme, Sacred To Ridicule His Whole Life Long, And The Sad Burthen Of Some Merry Song.

Our Judgments, Like Our Watches, None Go Just Alike, Yet Each Believes His Own

On Cold December Fragrant Chaplets Blow, And Heavy Harvests Nod Beneath The Snow.