All Looks Yellow To A Jaundiced Eye.

A Gen'rous Heart Repairs A Sland'rous Tongue.

Every Woman Is At Heart A Rake.

In Vain Sedate Reflections We Would Make When Half Our Knowledge We Must Snatch, Not Take.

Slave To No Sect, Who Takes No Private Road, But Looks Through Nature Up To Nature's God.

To Happy Convents, Bosomed Deep In Vines, Where Slumber Abbots, Purple As Their Wines.