Satire recoils whenever charged too high; round your own fame the fatal splinters fly.
Mine is the night, with all her stars.
He sins against this life, who slights the next.
Man wants but little, nor that little long; How soon must he resign his very dust, Which frugal nature lent him for an hour!
A strange alternative * * *Must women have a doctor or a dance?
Men before you have quit smoking - you can too!