My lodging is on the cold ground, And hard, very hard, is my fare, But that which grieves me more Is the coldness of my dear.

What will not luxury taste? Earth, sea, and air, Are daily ransack'd for the bill of fare. Blood stuffed in skins is British Christians' food, And France robs marshes of the croaking brood.

Give me, kind heaven, a private station, a mind serene for contemplation.

To friendship every burden's light.

In beauty faults conspicuous grow; The smallest speck is seen on snow.

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.

There is no dependence that can be sure but a dependence upon one's self.