We cry for mercy to the next amusement, The next amusement mortgages our fields
Accept a miracle, instead of wit See two dull lines, with Stanhope's pencil writ.
Life's cares are comforts; such by Heav'n design'd; He that hath none must make them, or be wretched.
Mine is the night, with all her stars.
O! lost to virtue, lost to manly thought, Lost to the noble sallies of the soul! Who think it solitude to be alone.
Inhumanity is caught from man, From smiling man.