Truth never was indebted to a lie

Early, bright, transient, chaste as morning dew, She sparkled, was exhaled, and went to heaven.

The chamber where the good man meets his fate Is privileg'd beyond the common walk Of virtuous life, quite in the verge of heaven.

Day buries day; month, month; and year the year: Our life is but a chain of many deaths.

A strange alternative * * *Must women have a doctor or a dance?

Accept a miracle, instead of wit See two dull lines, with Stanhope's pencil writ.

A man of pleasure is a man of pains.