Youth's the season made for joys, Love is then our duty.

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.

Whoever heard a man of fortune in England talk of the necessaries of life? . . . Whether we can afford it or no, we must have superfluities.

No author ever spar'd a brother.

'T is woman that seduces all mankind; By her we first were taught the wheedling arts.

Thus shadow owes its birth to light.

What happiness the rural maid attends, In cheerful labour while each day she spends! She gratefully receives what Heav'n has sent, And, rich in poverty, enjoys content.