The sun was set; the night came on apace, And falling dews bewet around the place; The bat takes airy rounds on leathern wings, And the hoarse owl his woeful dirges sings.

Of all the fools that pride can boast, A Coxcomb claims distinction most.

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

Who friendship with a knave hath made, Is judged a partner in the trade.

The luxury of doing good surpasses every other personal enjoyment.

When we risk no contradiction, It prompts the tongue to deal in fiction.

Look round, the wrecks of play behold; Estates dismember'd, mortgaged, sold! Their owners now to jails confin'd, Show equal poverty of mind.