I Was Not Born For Courts And

Happy The Man Whose Wish And Care A Few Paternal Acres Bound, Content To Breathe His Native Air In His Own Ground.

Superstition Is The Spleen Of The Soul.

So Perish All Who Do The Like Again.

Dear, Damned, Distracting Town, Farewell! Thy Fools No More I'll Tease: This Year In Peace, Ye Critics, Dwell, Ye Harlots, Sleep At Ease!

Alas! The Small Discredit Of A Bribe Scarce Hurts The Lawyer, But Undoes The Scribe.