I never, with important air, In conversation overbear. . . . . My tongue within my lips I rein; For who talks much must talk in vain.

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.

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.

The fly that sips treacle is lost in the sweets.

I must have women - there is nothing unbends the mind like them.

One common fate we both must prove; You die with envy, I with love.

Twas when the seas were roaring With hollow blasts of wind, A damsel lay deploring, All on a rock reclined.