She Who Has Never Lov'd,

Variety's The Source Of Joy Below, From Whence Still Fresh-revolving Pleasures Flow, In Books And Love The Mind One End Pursues, And Only Change The Expiring Flames Renews.

Youth's The Season Made For Joys, Love Is Then Our Duty.

In Beauty Faults Conspicuous Grow; The Smallest Speck Is Seen On Snow.

When If Or Chance Or Hunger's Powerful Sway Directs The Roving Trout This Fatal Way, He Greedily Sucks In The Twining Bait, And Tugs And Nibbles The Fallacious Meat. Now, Happy Fisherman; Now Twitch The Line! How Thy Rod Bends! Behold, The Prize Is Thine!

You Can Only Be Called A Hypocrite If You Judge Others First.