Do you think your mother and I should have lived comfortably so long together, if ever we had been married? Baggage!

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.

So comes a reck'ning when the banquet's o'er, The dreadful reckn'ning, and men smile no more.

Do you think your mother and I should have lived comfortably so long together, if ever we had been married? Baggage!

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

Why is the hearse with scutcheons blazon'd round, And with the nodding plume of ostrich crown'd? No; the dead know it not, nor profit gain; It only serves to prove the living vain.

In love we are all fools alike.