But winter lingering chills the lap of May.

Here lies David Garrick, describe me who can, An abridgment of all that was pleasant in man.

Quality and title have such allurements that hundreds are ready to give up all their own importance, to cringe, to flatter, to look little, and to pall every pleasure in constraint, merely to be among the great, though without the least hopes of improving their understanding or sharing their generosity. They might be happier among their equals.

Well had the boding tremblers learned to trace the day's disasters in his morning face.

A night-cap deck'd his brows instead of bay,- A cap by night, a stocking all the day.

Popular glory is a perfect coquette; her lovers must toil, feel every inquietude, indulge every caprice, and perhaps at last be jilted into the bargain. True glory, on the other hand, resembles a woman of sense; her admirers must play no tricks. They feel no great anxiety, for they are sure in the end of being rewarded in proportion to their merit.

The nakedness of the indigent world may be clothed from the trimmings of the vain.