Tis true, 'tis certain; man, though dead, retains Part of himself; the immortal mind remains.

On cold December fragrant chaplets blow, And heavy harvests nod beneath the snow.

Fair tresses man's imperial race ensnare; And beauty draws us with a single hair.

Hope travels through, nor quits us when we die.

A wit with dunces, and a dunce with wits.

The world is a thing we must of necessity either laugh at or be angry at; if we laugh at it, they say we are proud; if we are angry at it, they say we are ill-natured.

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?