Among Our Crimes Oblivion May Be Set.

Men's Virtues I Have Commended As Freely As I Have Taxed Their Crimes.

Of No Distemper, Of No Blast He Died, But Fell Like Autumn Fruit That Mellow'd Long: Even Wonder'd At, Because He Dropp'd No Sooner. Fate Seem'd To Wind Him Up For Fourscore Years; Yet Freshly Ran He On Ten Winters More; Till Like A Clock Worn Out With Eating Time, The Wheels Of Weary Life At Last Stood Still.

The Blushing Beauties Of A Modest Maid.

The True Amphitryon Is The Amphitryon Where We Dine.

Sure There Is None But Fears A Future State; And When The Most Obdurate Swear They Do Not, Their Trembling Hearts Belie Their Boasting Tongues.