A Noisy Man Is Always In The

All Affectation; 'tis My Perfect Scorn; Object Of My Implacable Disgust.

As If The World And They Were Hand And Glove.

O Solitude, Where Are The Charms That Sages Have Seen In Thy Face? Better Dwell In The Midst Of Alarms, Than Reign In This Horrible Place.

The Bud May Have A Bitter Taste, But Sweet Will Be The Flower.

I Pity Them Greatly, But I Must Be Mum, For How Could We Do Without Sugar And Rum?