On The Four Aces Doom'd To Roll.

There's A Strange Something, Which Without A Brain Fools Feel, And Which E'en Wise Men Can't Explain, Planted In Man, To Bind Him To That Earth, In Dearest Ties, From Whence He Drew His Birth.

Though By Whim, Envy, Or Resentment Led, They Damn Those Authors Whom They Never Read.

Constant Attention Wears The Active Mind, Blots Out Our Pow'rs, And Leaves A Blank Behind.

Knaves Starve Not In The Land Of Fools.

To Copy Beauty Forfeits All Pretense To Fame; To Copy Faults Is Want Of Sense