Patience Is Sorrow's Salve.

Who To Patch Up His Fame, Or Fill His Purse, Still Pilfers Wretched Plans, And Makes Them Worse; Like Gypsies, Lest The Stolen Brat Be Known, Defacing First, Then Claiming For His Own.

Childhood, Who Like An April Morn Appears, Sunshine And Rain, Hopes Clouded O'er With Fears.

Amongst The Sons Of Men How Few Are Known Who Dare Be Just To Merit Not Their Own.

The Scots Are Poor, Cries Surly English Pride; True Is The Charge, Nor By Themselves Denied. Are They Not Then In Strictest Reason Clear, Who Wisely Come To Mend Their Fortunes Here?

A Servile Race Who, In Mere Want Of Fault, All Merit Place; Who Blind Obedience Pay To Ancient Schools, Bigots To Greece, And Slaves To Musty Rules.