Who Then Will Explain The

Society Is Now One Polished Horde, Formed Of Two Mighty Tries, The Bores And Bored.

May Moorland Weavers Boast Pindaric Skill, And Tailors' Lays Be Longer Than Their Bill! While Punctual Beaux Reward The Grateful Notes, And Pay For Poems--when They Pay For Coats.

Though I Love My Country, I Do Not Love My Countrymen.

Tis Sweet To Listen As The Night Winds Creep From Leaf To Leaf.

The Thorns Which I Have Reap'd Are Of The Tree I Planted; They Have Torn Me, And I Bleed. I Should Have Known What Fruit Would Spring From Such A Seed.