Tenderness is a virtue.

Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog And in that town a dog was found, As many dogs there be, Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound, And curs of low degree.

But winter lingering chills the lap of May.

The jests of the rich are ever successful.

I always get the better when I argue alone.

Careless their merits or their faults to scan, His pity gave ere charity began. Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride, And even his failings lean'd to Virtue's side.

O Luxury! thou curst by Heaven's decree!