I hate the man who builds his name On ruins of another's fame. Thus prudes, by characters o'erthrown, Imagine that they raise their own. Thus Scribblers, covetous of praise, Think slander can transplant the bays.

One wife is too much for most husbands to bear, But two at a time there's no mortal can bear.

And when a lady's in the case, You know, all other things give place.

A woman's friendship ever ends in love.

Can you support the expense of a husband, hussy, in gaming, drinking and whoring? Have you money enough to carry on the daily quarrels of man and wife about who shall squander most?

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

How, like a moth, the simple maid Still plays around the flame!