The nakedness of the indigent world may be clothed from the trimmings of the vain.
Of praise a mere glutton, he swallow'd what came, And the puff a dunce, he mistook it for fame; Till his relish grown callous, almost to displease, Who pepper'd the highest was surest to please.
Hope is such a bait, it covers any hook.
O Luxury! thou curst by Heaven's decree!
In all the silent manliness of grief.
If the soul be happily disposed, every thing becomes capable of affording entertainment, and distress will almost want a name.