Who talks much, must talk in vain.

The charge is prepared; the lawyers are met; The judges all ranged (a terrible show!) I go, undismay'd. For death is a debt, A debt on demand. So take what I owe.

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.

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.

Fair is the kingcup that in meadow blows, Fair is the daisy that beside her grows.

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

How happy could I be with either, Were t'other dear charmer away!