Where Penury Is Felt The

Ten Thousand Casks, Forever Dribbling Out Their Base Contents, Touch'd By The Midas Finger Of The State, Bleed Gold For Ministers To Sport Away. Drink, And Be Mad Then; 'tis Your Country Bids!

A Moral, Sensible, And Well-bred Manwill Not Affront Me, And No Other Can.

We Turn To Dust, And All Our Mightiest Works Die Too.

Man On The Dubious Waves Of Error Toss'd.

What Is There In The Vale Of Lifehalf So Delightful As A Wife;when Friendship, Love And Peace Combineto Stamp The Marriage-bond Divine?