But those who cannot write, and those who can, All rhyme, and scrawl, and scribble, to a man.

Absent or dead, still let a friend be dear.

'Tis not enough your counsel still be true; Blunt truths more mischief than nice falsehoods do.

In men, we various ruling passions find; In women, two almost divide the kind Those, only fixed, they first or last obey, The love of pleasure, and the love of sway.

On life's vast ocean diversely we sail, Reason the card, but passion is the gale; Nor God alone in the still calm we find, He mounts the storm, and walks upon the wind.

If a man's character is to be abused there's nobody like a relative to do the business.

They dream in courtship, but in wedlock wake.