All Looks Yellow To The Jaundiced Eye.

Heaven From All Creatures Hides The Book Of Fate.

Whether The Charmer Sinner It, Or Saint It, If Folly Grow Romantic, I Must Paint It.

Virtue She Finds Too Painful An Endeavour, Content To Dwell In Decencies For Ever.

Of Little Use, The Man You May Suppose, Who Says In Verse What Others Say In Prose; Yet Let Me Show A Poet's Of Some Weight, And (though No Soldier) Useful To The State, What Will A Child Learn Sooner Than A Song? What Better Teach A Foreigner The Tongue? What's Long Or Short, Each Accent Where To Place And Speak In Public With Some Sort Of Grace?

Who Dare To Love Their Country, And Be Poor.