The enormous faith of many made for one.
The flower's are gone when the Fruits appear to ripen.
But touch me, and no minister so sore. Whoe'er offends, at some unlucky time Slides into verse, and hitches in a rhyme, Sacred to ridicule his whole life long, And the sad burthen of some merry song.
Ten censure wrong for one who writes amiss.
A saint in crape is twice a saint in lawn.
Oft in dreams invention we bestow to change a flounce or add a furbelow.
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