Die Of A Rose In Aromatic Pain.

Party-spirit At Best Is But The Madness Of Many For The Gain Of A Few.

In A Sadly Pleasing Strain, Let The Warbling Lute Complain.

"with Ev'ry Pleasing, Ev'ry Prudent Part, Say, What Can Chloe Want?"-she Wants A Heart.

Live Like Yourself, Was Soon My Lady's Word, And Lo! Two Puddings Smok'd Upon The Board.

He Knows To Live Who Keeps The Middle State, And Neither Leans On This Side Nor On That.