Those palates who, not yet two summers younger, must have inventions to delight the taste, would now be glad of bread, and beg for it.

“Is love a tender thing? it is too rough,Too rude, too boisterous, and it pricks…”

“Tis no mean happiness to be seated in the mean.”

“He that has a little tiny wit, With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,Must make co…”

“But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,All losses are restored and sorro…”