Whoe'er he be That tells my faults, I hate him mortally.
Now warm in love, now with'ring in my bloom Lost in a convent's solitary gloom!
A saint in crape is twice a saint in lawn.
The lamb thy riot dooms to bleed today, Had he thy reason, would he skip and play? Pleas'd to the last he crops the flow'ry food, And licks the hand just rais'd to shed his blood.
On life's vast ocean diversely we sail. Reasons the card, but passion the gale.
For forms of government, let fools contest; Whate'er is best administered, is best.