To what happy accident is it that we owe so unexpected a visit? — Oliver Goldsmith

By the living jingo, she was all of a muck of sweat.

When lovely woman stoops to folly,

And finds too late that men betray,

What charm can soothe her melancholy,

What art can wash her guilt away?

A kind and gentle heart he had,

To comfort friends and foes;

The naked every day he clad

When he put on his clothes.