Every Woman Is At Heart A Rake.

Wit And Judgment Often Are At Strife.

The Mouse That Always Trusts To One Poor Hole Can Never Be A Mouse Of Any Soul.

The Dances Ended, All The Fairy Train For Pinks And Daisies Search'd The Flow'ry Plain.

Let Fortune Do Her Worst, Whatever She Makes Us Lose, So Long As She Never Makes Us Lose Our Honesty And Our Independence.

Leave Not A Foot Of Verse, A Foot Of Stone, A Page, A Grave, That They Can Call Their Own; But Spread, My Sons, Your Glory Thin Or Thick, On Passive Paper, Or On Solid Brick.