Here Shock, the pride of all his kind, is laid, Who fawned like man, but ne'er like man betrayed.

Is there no hope? the sick man said, The silent doctor shook his head, And took his leave with signs of sorrow, Despairing of his fee to-morrow.

If with me you'd fondly stray Over the hills and far away.

Of all mechanics, of all servile handycrafts-men, a gamester is the vilest. But yet, as many of the quality are of the profession, he is admitted amongst the politest company.

Sure men were born to lie, and women to believe them!

To shoot at crows is powder flung away.

One common fate we both must prove; You die with envy, I with love.