Beasts Kill For Hunger, Men For Pay.

I Hate The Man Who Builds His Name On Ruins Of Another's Fame. Thus Prudes, By Characters O'erthrown, Imagine That They Raise Their Own. Thus Scribblers, Covetous Of Praise, Think Slander Can Transplant The Bays.

Youth's The Season Made For Joys, Love Is Then Our Duty.

What Happiness The Rural Maid Attends, In Cheerful Labour While Each Day She Spends! She Gratefully Receives What Heav'n Has Sent, And, Rich In Poverty, Enjoys Content.

Sure Men Were Born To Lie, And Women To Believe Them!

You Can Only Be Called A Hypocrite If You Judge Others First.