But though to this our weakness may be prone,

Let's learn to live, for we must die, alone.

LETTER XI.

INNS.

All the comforts of life in a tavern are known,

'Tis his home who possesses not one of his own;

And to him who has rather too much of that one,

'Tis the house of a friend where he's welcome to run:

The instant you enter my door you're my lord,

With whose taste and whose pleasure I'm proud to accord;