Die Of A Rose In Aromatic Pain.

Oh! If To Dance All Night, And Dress All Day, Charm'd The Small-pox, Or Chas'd Old Age Away; . . . . To Patch, Nay Ogle, Might Become A Saint, Nor Could It Sure Be Such A Sin To Paint.

When Much Dispute Has Past, We Find Our Tenets Just The Same As Last.

How Vast A Memory Has Love!

No Craving Void Left Aching In The Soul.

Oft In Dreams Invention We Bestow To Change A Flounce Or Add A Furbelow.