For what I have publish'd, I can only hope to be pardon'd; but for what I have burned, I deserve to be prais'd.

Our passions are like convulsion fits, which, though they make us stronger for a time, leave us the weaker ever after.

On wrongs swift vengeance waits.

Whoe'er he be That tells my faults, I hate him mortally.

Our rural ancestors, with little blest, Patient of labor when the end was rest, Indulged the day that housed their annual grain, With feasts, and off'rings, and a thankful strain.

Man, like the generous vine, supported lives; the strength he gains is from the embrace he gives.

Know, Nature's children all divide her care, The fur that warms a monarch warmed a bear.