Woman's at best a contradiction still.

Praise from a friend, or censure from a foe, Are lost on hearers that our merits know.

Be thou the first true merit to befriend, his praise is lost who stays till all commend.

Good sense, which only is the gift of Heaven, And though no science, fairly worth the seven.

Is pride, the never-failing vice of fools.

Then, at the last and only couplet fraught With some unmeaning thing they call a thought, A needless Alexandrine ends the song, That, like a wounded snake, drags its slow length along.

But thousands die without or this or that, Die, and endow a college or a cat.