A Brain Of Feathers, And

Sometimes Virtue Starves While Vice Is Fed.

In Pride, In Reas'ning Pride, Our Error Lies; All Quit Their Sphere And Rush Into The Skies. Pride Still Is Aiming At The Bless'd Abodes, Men Would Be Angels, Angels Would Be Gods.

When We Are Young, We Are Slavishly Employed In Procuring Something Whereby We May Live Comfortably When We Grow Old; And When We Are Old, We Perceive It Is Too Late To Live As We Proposed.

Intestine War No More Our Passions Wage, And Giddy Factions Bear Away Their Rage.

Woman's At Best A Contradiction Still.