The brief span of our poor unhappy life to its final hour Is hastening on; and while we drink and call for gay wreaths, Perfumes, and young girls, old age creeps upon us, unperceived.

No one ever reached the worst of a vice at one leap

An undying hatred, and a wound never to be healed.

Of the woes Of unhappy poverty, none is more difficult to bear Than that it heaps men with ridicule.

Nature, in giving tears to man, confessed that he Had a tender heart; this is our noblest quality.

There will he nothing more that posterity can add to our immoral habits; our descendants must have the same desires and act the same follies as their sires. Every vice has reached its zenith.

Many have an irresistible itch for writing.