No Modest Man Ever Did

Strictly Speaking, There Is But One Real Evil: I Mean Acute Pain. All Other Complaints Are So Considerably Diminished By Time That It Is Plain The Grief Is Owing To Our Passion, Since The Sensation Of It Vanishes When That Is Over.

The Screech-owl, With Ill-boding Cry, Portends Strange Things, Old Women Say; Stops Every Fool That Passes By, And Frights The School-boy From His Play.

Miserable Is The Fate Of Writers: If They Are Agreeable, They Are Offensive; And If Dull, They Starve.

I Hate The Noise And Hurry Inseparable From Great Estates And Titles, And Look Upon Both As Blessings That Ought Only To Be Given To Fools, For 'tis Only To Them That They Are Blessings.

I Know A Love May Be Revived Which Absence, Inconstancy, Or Even Infidelity Has Extinguished, But There Is No Returning From A Dtgovt Given By Satiety.