O Polly, you might have toyed and kissed, by keeping men off, you keep them on.

Envy's a sharper spur than pay: No author ever spar'd a brother; Wits are gamecocks to one another.

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.

My lodging is on the cold ground, And hard, very hard, is my fare, But that which grieves me more Is the coldness of my dear.

Thus shadow owes its birth to light.

Lest men suspect your tale untrue, Keep probability in view.

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