A dearth of words a woman need not fear; But 'tis a task indeed to learn to hear: In that the skill of conversation lies; That shows and makes you both polite and wise.

But fate ordains that dearest friends must part.

Why all this toil for triumphs of an hour? What tho' we wade in Wealth, or soar in Fame? Earth's highest station ends in 'Here he lies;' and 'Dust to dust' concludes the noblest songs.

We see time's furrows on another's brow, And death intrench'd, preparing his assault; How few themselves in that just mirror see!

Souls made of fire, and children of the sun, With whom revenge is virtue.

Think naught a trifle, though it small appear; Small stands the mountain, moments make the year, and trifles life.

Life's cares are comforts; such by Heav'n design'd; He that hath none must make them, or be wretched.