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At Length Corruption, Like A General Flood (so Long By Watchful Ministers Withstood), Shall Deluge All; And Avarice, Creeping On, Spread Like A Low-born Mist, And Blot The Sun.

-Alexander Pope

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At Length Corruption, Like

Alexander Pope

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At Length Corruption, Like A General Flood (so Long By Watchful Ministers Withstood), Shall Deluge All; And Avarice, Creeping On, Spread Like A Low-born Mist, And Blot The Sun.

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To Endeavor To Work Upon The Vulgar With Fine Sense Is Like Attempting To Hew Blocks With A Razor.

Never Elated While One Man's Oppress'd; Never Dejected While Another's Blessed.

Nothing Is More Certain Than Much Of The Force; As Well As Grace, Of Arguments Or Instructions Depends Their Conciseness.

True Wit Is Nature To Advantage Dressed; What Oft Was Thought, But Ne'er So Well Expressed.

Condition, Circumstance, Is Not The Thing; Bliss Is The Same In Subject Or In King.

Genius Creates, And Taste Preserves.

What Tully Said Of War May Be Applied To Disputing: "it Should Be Always So Managed As To Remember That The Only True End Of It Is Peace." But Generally True Disputants Are Like True Sportsmen,--their Whole Delight Is In The Pursuit; And The Disputant No More Cares For The Truth Than The Sportsman For The Hare.

First Follow Nature, And Your Judgment Frame By Her Just Standard, Which Is Still The Same: Unerring Nature, Still Divinely Bright, One Clear, Unchanged, And Universal Light, Life, Force, And Beauty Must To All Impart, At Once The Source, And End, And Test Of Art.

The Grave Unites; Where E'en The Great Find Rest, And Blended Lie Th' Oppressor And Th' Oppressed!

Aurora Now, Fair Daughter Of The Dawn, Sprinkled With Rosy Light The Dewy Lawn.

Extremes In Nature Equal Ends Produce; In Man They Join To Some Mysterious Use.

Let Fortune Do Her Worst, Whatever She Makes Us Lose, So Long As She Never Makes Us Lose Our Honesty And Our Independence.

To Happy Convents, Bosomed Deep In Vines, Where Slumber Abbots, Purple As Their Wines.

The Greatest Advantage I Know Of Being Thought A Wit By The World Is, That It Gives One The Greater Freedom Of Playing The Fool.

On Life's Vast Ocean Diversely We Sail, Reason The Card, But Passion Is The Gale; Nor God Alone In The Still Calm We Find, He Mounts The Storm, And Walks Upon The Wind.

Worth Makes The Man, And Want Of It The Fellow; The Rest Is All But Leather And Prunello.

A Saint In Crape Is Twice A Saint In Lawn.

Hope Humbly Then; With Trembling Pinions Soar; Wait The Great Teacher, Death, And God Adore; What Future Bliss He Gives Not Thee To Know, But Gives That Hope To Be Thy Blessing Now.

Careless Of Censure, Nor Too Fond Of Fame, Still Pleased To Praise, Yet Not Afraid To Blame, Averse Alike To Flatter Or Offend, Not Free From Faults, Nor Yet Too Vain To Mend.

While I Live, No Rich Or Noble Knave Shall Walk The World In Credit To His Grave.

Simplicity Is The Mean Between Ostentation And Rusticity.

Hope Springs Eternal In The Human Breast: Man Never Is, But Always To Be Blest.

Unthought-of Frailties Cheat Us In The Wise.

A Wise Physician, Skill'd Our Wounds To Heal, Is More Than Armies To The Public Weal.

The Nicest Constitutions Of Government Are Often Like The Finest Pieces Of Clock-work, Which, Depending On So Many Motions, Are Therefore More Subject To Be Out Of Order.

O Love! For Sylvia Let Me Gain The Prize, And Make My Tongue Victorious As Her Eyes.

Chaste To Her Husband, Frank To All Beside, A Teeming Mistress, But A Barren Bride.

No Creature Smarts So Little As A Fool.

The Flower's Are Gone When The Fruits Appear To Ripen.

Do Good By Stealth, And Blush To Find It Fame.

Of Manners Gentle, Of Affections Mild; In Wit A Man; Simplicity, A Child.

All Looks Yellow To A Jaundiced Eye.

Who Combats Bravely Is Not Therefore Brave, He Dreads A Death-bed Like The Meanest Slave: Who Reasons Wisely Is Not Therefore Wise,- His Pride In Reasoning, Not In Acting Lies.

Seas Roll To Waft Me, Suns To Light Me Rise; My Footstool Earth, My Canopy The Skies.

Some People Will Never Learn Anything, For This Reason, Because They Understand Everything Too Soon.

Genuine Religion Is Not So Much A Matter Of Feeling As A Matter Of Principle.

Offend Her, And She Knows Not To Forgive; Oblige Her, And She'll Hate You While You Live.

Where'er You Walk Cool Gales Shall Fan The Glade, Trees Where You Sit Shall Crowd Into A Shade. Where'er You Tread The Blushing Flowers Shall Rise, And All Things Flourish Where You Turn Your Eyes.

Ask For What End The Heavenly Bodies Shine, Earth For Whose Use? Pride Answers, 'tis For Mine For Me Kind Nature Wakes Her Genial Power, Suckles Each Herb, And Spreads Out Every Flower.

The Lamb Thy Riot Dooms To Bleed Today, Had He Thy Reason, Would He Skip And Play? Pleas'd To The Last He Crops The Flow'ry Food, And Licks The Hand Just Rais'd To Shed His Blood.

What Will A Child Learn Sooner Than A Song?

Not Half So Swift The Trembling Doves Can Fly, When The Fierce Eagle Cleaves The Liquid Sky; Not Half So Swiftly The Fierce Eagle Moves, When Thro' The Clouds He Drives The Trembling Doves.

An Honest Man's The Noblest Work Of God.

Here Hills And Vales, The Woodland And The Plain Here Earth And Water Seem To Strive Again, Not Chaos-like Together Crushed And Bruised, But, As The World, Harmoniously Confused: Where Order In Variety We See, And Where, Though All Things Differ, All Agree.

From The Moment One Sets Up For An Author, One Must Be Treated As Ceremoniously, That Is As Unfaithfully, "as A King's Favorite Or A King.

The Same Ambition Can Destroy Or Save, And Make A Patriot As It Makes A Knave.

Know Then, Unnumber'd Spirits Round Thee Fly, The Light Militia Of The Lower Sky.

Trade It May Help, Society Extend, But Lures The Pirate, Ant Corrupts The Friend: It Raises Armies In A Nation's Aid, But Bribes A Senate, And The Land's Betray'd.

Bear, Like The Turk, No Brother Near The Throne.

Let Sinful Bachelors Their Woes Deplore; Full Well They Merit All They Feel, And More: Unaw By Precepts, Human Or Divine, Like Birds And Beasts, Promiscuously They Join.

The Only Time You Run Out Of Chances Is When You Stop Taking Them

Consult The Genius Of The Place, That Paints As You Plant, And As You Work.

Learning Is Like Mercury, One Of The Most Powerful And Excellent Things In The World In Skillful Hands; In Unskillful, The Most Mischievous.

There Is Nothing That Is Meritorious But Virtue And Friendship.

Two Women Seldom Grow Intimate But At The Expense Of A Third Person; They Make Friendships As Kings Of Old Made Leagues, Who Sacrificed Some Poor Animal Betwixt Them, And Commenced Strict Allies; So The Ladies, After They Have Pulled Some Character To Pieces, Are From Henceforth Inviolable Friends.

Whether The Charmer Sinner It, Or Saint It, If Folly Grow Romantic, I Must Paint It.

From Vulgar Bounds With Brave Disorder Part, And Snatch A Grace Beyond The Reach Of Art.

When Much Dispute Has Past, We Find Our Tenets Just The Same As Last.

You Purchase Pain With All That Joy Can Give And Die Of Nothing But A Rage To Live.

Good Sense, Which Only Is The Gift Of Heaven, And Though No Science, Fairly Worth The Seven.

The Doubtful Beam Long Nods From Side To Side.

The Finest Minds, Like The Finest Metals, Dissolve The Easiest.

Not To Go Back Is Somewhat To Advance, And Men Must Walk, At Least, Before They Dance.

A Long, Exact, And Serious Comedy; In Every Scene Some Moral Let It Teach, And, If It Can, At Once Both Please And Preach.

Say First, Of God Above Or Man Below; What Can We Reason But From What We Know.

So Man, Who Here Seems Principal Alone, Perhaps Acts Second To Some Sphere Unknown Touches Some Wheel, Or Verges To Some Goal; 'tis But A Part We See, And Not A Whole.

All Nature Is But Art, Unknown To Thee All Chance, Direction, Which Thou Canst Not See; All Discord, Harmony Not Understood; All Partial Evil, Universal Good.

I Lose My Patience, And I Own It Too, When Works Are Censur'd, Not As Bad But New; While If Our Elders Break All Reason's Laws, These Fools Demand Not Pardon But Applause.

Two Purposes In Human Nature Rule. Self- Love To Urge, And Reason To Restrain.

Slave To No Sect, Who Takes No Private Road, But Looks Through Nature Up To Nature's God.

Love The Offender, Yet Detest The Offense.

Alas! The Small Discredit Of A Bribe Scarce Hurts The Lawyer, But Undoes The Scribe.

Cavil You May, But Never Criticise.

By Music Minds An Equal Temper Know, Nor Swell Too High, Nor Sink Too Low. . . . . Warriors She Fires With Animated Sounds. Pours Balm Into The Bleeding Lover's Wounds.

Jarring Interests Of Themselves Create The According Music Of A Well-mixed State.

The Lot Of Man - To Suffer And To Die.

Behold The Child, By Nature's Kindly Law, Pleased With A Rattle, Tickled With A Straw; Some Livelier Plaything Gives His Youth Delight, A Little Louder, But As Empty Quite; Scarfs, Garters, Gold, Amuse His Riper Stage, And Beads And Prayer-books Are The Toys Of Age. Pleased With This Bauble Still, As That Before, Till Tired He Sleeps, And Life's Poor Play Is O'er.

But Honest Instinct Comes A Volunteer; Sure Never To O'er-shoot, But Just To Hit, While Still Too Wide Or Short In Human Wit.

Some To Conceit Alone Their Taste Confine, And Glittering Thoughts Struck Out At Ev'ry Line; Pleas'd With A Work Where Nothing's Just Or Fit; One Glaring Chaos And Wild Heap Of Wit.

So Upright Quakers Please Both Man And God.

A Brave Man Struggling In The Storms Of Fate, And Greatly Falling With A Falling State.

Honor And Shame From No Condition Rise. Act Well Your Part: There All The Honor Lies.

Great Oaks Grow From Little Acorns. He Has A Green Thumb. He Has Green Fingers. He's Sowing His Wild Oats. Here Ceres' Gifts In Waving Prospect Stand, And Nodding Tempt The Joyful Reaper's Hand.

Heaven From All Creatures Hides The Book Of Fate.

Whoever Thinks A Faultless Piece To See, Thinks What Ne'er Was, Nor Is, Nor E'er Shall Be.

To Buy Books As Some Do Who Make No Use Of Them, Only Because They Were Published By An Eminent Printer, Is Much As If A Man Should Buy Clothes That Did Not Fit Him, Only Because They Were Made By Some Famous Tailor.

All Looks Yellow To A Jaundiced Eye That Habitually Compares Everything To Something Better. But By Changing That Habit To Comparing Everything To Something Worse, Even Making It A Game, That Person Can Find Gratitude, Relief And Happiness Where-ever They Go And Whatever They Experience, Guaranteed!

Hope Travels Through, Nor Quits Us When We Die.

The Season When To Come, And When To Go, To Sing, Or Cease To Sing, We Never Know.

Nor Public Flame, Nor Private, Dares To Shine; Nor Human Spark Is Left, Nor Glimpse Divine! Lo! Thy Dread Empire, Chaos! Is Restored; Light Dies Before Thy Uncreating Word: Thy Hand, Great Anarch! Lets The Curtain Fall; And Universal Darkness Buries All.

On Her White Breast A Sparkling Cross She Wore, Which Jews Might Kiss And Infidels Adore.

In Lazy Apathy Let Stoics Boast, Their Virtue Fixed, 'tis Fixed As In A Frost.

Whatever Is, Is Right.

Whate'er The Talents, Or Howe'er Designed, We Hang One Jingling Padlock On The Mind.

Modest Plainness Sets Off Sprightly Wit, For Works May Have More With Than Does 'em Good, As Bodies Perish Through Excess Of Blood.

Poets Heap Virtues, Painters Gems, At Will, And Show Their Zeal, And Hide Their Want Of Skill.

In This Commonplace World Every One Is Said To Be Romantic Who Either Admires A Fine Thing Or Does One.

If I Am Right, Thy Grace Impart Still In The Right To Stay; If I Am Wrong, O, Teach My Heart To Find That Better Way!

As The Twig Is Bent, So Grows The Tree.

There Are Some Solitary Wretches Who Seem To Have Left The Rest Of Mankind, Only, As Eve Left Adam, To Meet The Devil In Private.

For When Success A Lover's Toil Attends,few Ask, If Fraud Or Force Attain'd His Ends

The Worst Of Madmen Is A Saint Run Mad.

Death, Only Death, Can Break The Lasting Chain; And Here, Ev'n Then, Shall My Cold Dust Remain

What Woeful Stuff This Madrigal Would Be, In Some Starved Hackney Sonneteer, Or Me! But Let A Lord Once Own The Happy Lines, How The Wit Brightens! How The Style Refines!

The Most Positive Men Are The Most Credulous.

Choose A Firm Cloud Before It Fall, And In It Catch, Ere She Change, The Cynthia Of This Minute.

No Craving Void Left Aching In The Soul.

Age And Want Sit Smiling At The Gate.

Is There No Bright Reversion In The Sky, For Those Who Greatly Think Or Bravely Die?

'tis Not Enough Your Counsel Still Be True; Blunt Truths More Mischief Than Nice Falsehoods Do.

Whoe'er He Be That Tells My Faults, I Hate Him Mortally.

Consult The Genius Of The Place In All.

Oft In Dreams Invention We Bestow To Change A Flounce Or Add A Furbelow.

A Man Of Business May Talk Of Philosophy; A Man Who Has None May Practice It.

Who Shall Decide When Doctors Disagree, And Soundest Casuists Doubt, Like You And Me?

Luxurious Lobster-nights, Farewell, For Sober, Studious Days!

The Good Must Merit God's Peculiar Care; But Who But God Can Tell Us Who They Are?

See How The World Its Veterans Rewards! A Youth Of Frolics, An Old Age Of Cards; Fair To No Purpose, Artful To No End, Young Without Lovers, Old Without A Friend; A Fop Their Passion, But Their Prize A Sot; Alive Ridiculous, And Dead Forgot.

The Life Of A Wit Is A Warfare Upon Earth.

There Various News I Heard Of Love And Strife,of Peace And War, Health, Sickness, Death, And Life,of Loss And Gain, Of Famine And Of Store,of Storms At Sea, And Travels On The Shore,of Prodigies, And Portents Seen In Air,of Fires And Plagues, And Stars With Blazing Hair,of Turns Of Fortune, Changes In The State,the Fall Of Favourites, Projects Of The Great,of Aid Mismanagements, Taxations New:all Neither Wholly False, Nor Wholly True.

Gentle Dullness Ever Loves A Joke.

Order Is Heaven's First Law; And This Confess, Some Are And Must Be Greater Than The Rest.

A Tree Is A Nobler Object Than A Prince In His Coronation-robes.

What Can Ennoble Sots, Or Slaves, Or Cowards? Alas! Not All The Blood, Of All The Howards.

Chiefs Who No More In Bloody Fights Engage, But Wise Through Time, And Narrative With Age, In Summer-days Like Grasshoppers Rejoice - A Bloodless Race, That Send A Feeble Voice.

I Have More Zeal Than Wit.

An Atheist Is But A Mad, Ridiculous Derider Of Piety, But A Hypocrite Makes A Sober Jest Of God And Religion; He Finds It Easier To Be Upon His Knees Than To Rise To A Good Action.

A Brain Of Feathers, And A Heart Of Lead.

Men, Some To Business, Some To Pleasure Take; But Every Woman Is At Heart A Rake.

And Binding Nature Fast In Fate, Left Free The Human Will.

The Way Of The Creative Works Through Change And Transformation, So That Each Thing Receives Its True Nature And Destiny And Comes Into Permanent Accord With The Great Harmony: This Is What Furthers And What Perseveres.

As Some To Church Repair, Not For The Doctrine, But The Music There.

Envy, To Which Th' Ignoble Mind's A Slave, Is Emulation In The Learn'd Or Brave.

Some Have At First For Wits, Then Poets Passed, Turned Critics Next, And Proved Plain Fools At Last.

The Scripture In Times Of Disputes Is Like An Open Town In Times Of War, Which Serves In Differently The Occasions Of Both Parties.

For I, Who Hold Sage Homer's Rule The Best, Welcome The Coming, Speed The Going Guest.

But See, The Shepherds Shun The Noonday Heat, The Lowing Herds To Murmuring Brooks Retreat, To Closer Shades The Panting Flocks Remove; Ye Gods! And Is There No Relief For Love?

A Fellow Feeling Makes Us Wondrous Kind.

How Do We Know That We Have A Right To Kill Creatures That We Are So Little Above, As Dogs, For Our Curiosity Or Even For Some Use To Us?

Who Taught That Heaven-directed Spire To Rise?

Sole Judge Of Truth, In Endless Error Hurled: / The Glory, Jest, And Riddle Of The World!

Love, Hope, And Joy, Fair Pleasure's Smiling Train, Hate, Fear, And Grief, The Family Of Pain, These Mix'd With Art, And To Due Bounds Confin'd Make And Maintain The Balance Of The Mind.

Behold The Child, By Nature's Kindly Law Pleased With A Rattle, Tickled With A Straw.

To Pardon Those Absurdities In Ourselves Which We Cannot Suffer In Others Is Neither Better Nor Worse Than To Be More Willing To Be Fools Ourselves Than To Have Others So.

Lend, Lend Your Wings! I Mount! I Fly! O Grave! Where Is Thy Victory? O Death! Where Is Thy Sting?

Court-virtues Bear, Like Gems, The Highest Rate, Born Where Heav'n Influence Scarce Can Penetrate. In Life's Low Vale, The Soil The Virtues Like, They Please As Beauties, Here As Wonders Strike.

She Went From Opera, Park, Assembly, Play, To Morning Walks, And Prayers Three Hours A Day. To Part Her Time 'twixt Reading And Bohea, To Muse, And Spill Her Solitary Tea, Or O'er Cold Coffee Trifle With The Spoon, Count The Slow Clock, And Dine Exact At Noon.

It Is Observable That The Ladies Frequent Tragedies More Than Comedies; The Reason May Be, That In Tragedy Their Sex Is Deified And Adored, In Comedy Exposed And Ridiculed.

Ten Censure Wrong For One Who Writes Amiss.

Superstition Is The Spleen Of The Soul.

Count All Th' Advantage Prosperous Vice Attains, 'tis But What Virtue Flies From And Disdains: And Grant The Bad What Happiness They Would, One They Must Want--which Is, To Pass For Good.

Lo! The Poor Indian! Whose Untutor'd Mind Sees God In Clouds, Or Hears Him In The Wind; His Soul Proud Science Never Taught To Stray Far As The Solar Walk Or Milky Way.

In Adamantine Chains Shall Death Be Bound, And Hell's Grim Tyrant Feel Th' Eternal Wound.

Old Men, For The Most Part, Are Like Old Chronicles That Give You Dull But True Accounts Of Times Past, And Are Worth Knowing Only On That Score.

In Faith And Hope The World Will Disagree, But All Mankind's Concern Is Charity.

No Senses Stronger Than His Brain Can Bear. Why Has Not Man A Microscopic Eye? For This Plain Reason, Man Is Not A Fly: What The Advantage, If His Finer Eyes Study A Mite, Not Comprehend The Skies?... Or Quick Effluvia Darting Thro' His Brain, Die Of A Rose, In Aromatic Pain? If Nature Thunder'd In His Opening Ears, And Stunn'd Him With The Music Of The Spheres... Who Finds Not Providence All-good And Wise, Alike In What It Gives, And What Denies?

When Rumours Increase, And When There Is An Abundance Of Noise And Clamour, Believe The Second Report.

Awake, My St. John! Leave All Meaner Things To Low Ambition And The Pride Of Kings. Let Us (since Life Can Little More Supply Than Just To Look About Us, And To Die) Expatiate Free O'er All This Scene Of Man; A Mighty Maze! But Not Without A Plan.

The Difference Is As Great Between The Optics Seeing As The Objects Seen. All Manners Take A Tincture From Our Own; Or Come Discolor'd Through Out Passions Shown; Or Fancy's Beam Enlarges, Multiplies, Contracts, Inverts, And Gives Ten Thousand Dyes.

Tis Use Alone That Sanctifies Expense And Splendor Borrow All Her Rays From Sense.

True Friendship's Laws Are By This Rule Express'd, Welcome The Coming, Speed The Parting Guest.

He Who Tells A Lie Is Not Sensible Of How Great A Task He Undertakes; For He Must Be Forced To Invent Twenty More To Maintain That One.

Virtue, I Grant You, Is An Empty Boast; But Shall The Dignity Of Vice Be Lost?

Envy Will Merit, As Its Shade, Pursue

O Let Us Still The Secret Joy Partake, To Follow Virtue Even For Virtue's Sake.

Beauties In Vain Their Pretty Eyes May Roll; Charms Strike The Sight, But Merit Wins The Soul.

Ah! Why, Ye Gods, Should Two And Two Make Four?

Man, Like The Generous Vine, Supported Lives; The Strength He Gains Is From The Embrace He Gives.

Man Never Thinks Himself Happy, But When He Enjoys Those Things Which Others Want Or Desire.

Still When The Lust Of Tyrant Power Succeeds, Some Athens Perishes, Or Some Tully Bleeds.

Pleasures Are Ever In Our Hands Or Eyes; And When In Act They Cease, In Prospect Rise.

Absent Or Dead, Still Let A Friend Be Dear.

Who Dare To Love Their Country, And Be Poor.

But See, Orion Sheds Unwholesome Dews; Arise, The Pines A Noxious Shade Diffuse; Sharp Boreas Blows, And Nature Feels Decay, Time Conquers All, And We Must Time Obey.

True Self-love And Social Are The Same.

There Are Certain Times When Most People Are In A Disposition Of Being Informed, And 'tis Incredible What A Vast Good A Little Truth Might Do, Spoken In Such Seasons.

But Blind To Former As To Future Fate, What Mortal Knows His Pre-existent State?

Act Well Your Part, There All The Honour Lies.

To Rest, The Cushion And Soft Dean Invite, Who Never Mentions Hell To Ears Polite.

Praise Undeserved, Is Satire In Disguise.

Know Then This Truth, Enough For Man To Know Virtue Alone Is Happiness Below.

She Who Ne'er Answers Till A Husband Cools, Or, If She Rules Him, Never Shows She Rules; Charms By Accepting, By Submitting, Sways, Yet Has Her Humor Most, When She Obeys.

What Conscience Dictates To Be Done, Or Warns Me Not To Do; This Teach Me More Than Hell To Shun, That More Than Heav'n Pursue.

And Make Each Day A Critic On The Last.

Fortune In Men Has Some Small Diff'rence Made, One Flaunts In Rags, One Flutters In Brocade, The Cobbler Apron'd, And The Parson Gown'd, The Friar Hooded, And The Monarch Crown'd.

In Lazy Apathy Let Stoics Boast, Their Virtue Fix'd: 't Is Fix'd As In A Frost; Contracted All, Retiring To The Breast; But Strength Of Mind Is Exercise, Not Rest.

Self-love, The Spring Of Motion, Acts The Soul; Reason's Comparing Balance Rules The Whole. Man, But For That No Action Could Attend, And, But For This, Were Active To No End: Fix'd Like A Plant On His Peculiar Spot, To Draw Nutrition, Propagate, And Rot; Or, Meteor-like, Flame Lawless Thro' The Void, Destroying Others, By Himself Destroy'd.

True Wit Is Nature To Advantage Dress'd What Oft Was Thought, But Ne'er So Well Express'd; Something Whose Truth Convinced At Sight We Find, That Gives Us Back The Image Of Our Mind. As Shades More Sweetly Recommend The Light, So Modest Plainness Sets Off Sprightly Wit.

Is Pride, The Never-failing Vice Of Fools.

Search Then The Ruling Passion; There Alone, The Wild Are Constant, And The Cunning Known; The Fool Consistent, And The False Sincere; Priests, Princes, Women, No Dissemblers Here.

But Just Disease To Luxury Succeeds, And Ev'ry Death Its Own Avenger Breeds.

Disease And Death

The Vanity Of Human Life Is Like A River, Constantly Passing Away, And Yet Constantly Coming On.

I Would Not Be Like Those Authors, Who Forgive Themselves Some Particular Lines For The Sake Of A Whole Poem, And Vice Versa A Whole Poem For The Sake Of Some Particular Lines. I Believe No One Qualification Is So Likely To Make A Good Writer, As The Power Of Rejecting His Own Thoughts.

Now Warm In Love, Now With'ring In My Bloom Lost In A Convent's Solitary Gloom!

Sometimes Virtue Starves While Vice Is Fed.

No Louder Shrieks To Pitying Heaven Are Cast, When Husbands Or Lap-dogs Breathe Their Last.

Words Are Like Leaves; And Where They Most Abound, Much Fruit Of Sense Beneath Is Rarely Found.

The Heart Resolves This Matter In A Trice, "men Only Feel The Smart, But Not The Vice.

Happy The Man Whose Wish And Care A Few Paternal Acres Bound, Content To Breathe His Native Air In His Own Ground.

Thou Wert My Guide, Philosopher, And Friend.

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