Is there a parson much bemused in beer, a maudlin poetess, a rhyming peer, a clerk foredoom'd his father's soul to cross, who pens a stanza when he should engross?

For when success a lover's toil attends,Few ask, if fraud or force attain'd his ends

It is sure the hardest science to forget!

We think our fathers fools, so wise we grow. Our wiser sons, no doubt will think us so.

Chaste to her husband, frank to all beside, A teeming mistress, but a barren bride.

Love the offender, yet detest the offense.

Who are next to knaves? Those that converse with them.