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At Present We Can Only Reason Of The Divine Justice From What We Know Of Justice In Man. When We Are In Other Scenes, We May Have Truer And Nobler Ideas Of It; But While We Are In This Life, We Can Only Speak From The Volume That Is Laid Open Before Us.

-Alexander Pope

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At Present We Can

Alexander Pope

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At Present We Can Only Reason Of The Divine Justice From What We Know Of Justice In Man. When We Are In Other Scenes, We May Have Truer And Nobler Ideas Of It; But While We Are In This Life, We Can Only Speak From The Volume That Is Laid Open Before Us.

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The Dying Christian To His Soul (1712) -vital Spark Of Heav'nly Flame! Quit, Oh Quit, This Mortal Frame: Trembling, Hoping, Ling'ring, Flying, Oh The Pain, The Bliss Of Dying! Stanza 1.

Order Is Heaven's First Law.

Be Not The First By Whom The New Are Tried, Nor Yet The Last To Lay The Old Aside.

The Most Positive Men Are The Most Credulous.

To What Base Ends, And By What Abject Ways, Are Mortals Urg'd Through Sacred Lust Of Praise!

Hope Travels Through, Nor Quits Us When We Die.

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

Never Find Fault With The Absent.

And Write About It, Goddess, And About It!

Pride, Where Wit Fails, Steps In To Our Defence, And Fills Up All The Mighty Void Of Sense.

Truth Shines The Brighter, Clad In Verse.

Whether With Reason, Or With Instinct Blest, Know, All Enjoy That Pow'r Which Suits Them Best.

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

[t]hro This Air, This Ocean, And This Earth, All Nature Quick, And Bursting Into Birth. Above, How High Progressive Life May Go? Around How Wide? How Deep Extend Below? Vast Chain Of Being! Which From God Began, Ethereal Essence, Spirit, Substance, Man, Beast, Bird, Fish, Insect! What No Eye Can See, No Glass Can Reach! From Infinite To Thee! From Thee To Nothing.... From Natures Chain Whatever Link You Strike, Tenth, Or Ten Thousandth, Breaks The Chain Alike.... All Are But Parts Of One Stupendous Whole: Whose Body Nature Is, And God The Soul.

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

Wit And Judgment Often Are At Strife.

Talk What You Will Of Taste, My Friend, You'll Find Two Of A Face As Soon As Of A Mind.

Many Men Have Been Capable Of Doing A Wise Thing, More A Cunning Thing, But Very Few A Generous Thing.

Fools Rush In Where Angels Fear To Tread.

Find, If You Can, In What You Cannot Change. Manners With Fortunes, Humours Turn With Climes, Tenets With Books, And Principles With Times.

Trace Science, Then, With Modesty Thy Guide, First Strip Off All Her Equipage Of Pride, Deduct What Is But Vanity Or Dress, Or Learning's Luxury Or Idleness, Or Tricks, To Show The Stretch Of The Human Brain Mere Curious Pleasure Or Ingenious Pain.

A Youth Of Frolic, An Old Age Of Cards.

Praise From A Friend, Or Censure From A Foe, Are Lost On Hearers That Our Merits Know.

Every Man Has Just As Much Vanity As He Wants Understanding.

And Not A Vanity Is Given In Vain.

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

The Search Of Our Future Being Is But A Needless, Anxious, And Haste To Be Knowing, Sooner Than We Can, What, Without All This Solicitude, We Shall Know A Little Later.

Envy Will Merit, As Its Shade, Pursue

To The Elysian Shades Dismiss My Soul, Where No Carnation Fades.

Religion Blushing, Veils Her Sacred Fires, And Unawares Morality Expires.

Time Conquers All, And We Must Time Obey.

All Nature's Diff'rence Keeps All Nature's Peace.

Music The Fiercest Grief Can Charm, And Fate's Severest Rage Disarm. Music Can Soften Pain To Ease, And Make Despair And Madness Please; Our Joys Below It Can Improve, And Antedate The Bliss Above.

Here Am I, Dying Of A Hundred Good Symptoms.

Famous Last Words

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!

Heaven Gave To Woman The Peculiar Grace To Spin, To Weep, And Cully Human Race.

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.

No Woman Ever Hates A Man For Being In Love With Her, But Many A Woman Hate A Man For Being A Friend To Her.

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

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.

I Begin Where Most People End, With A Full Conviction Of The Emptiness Of All Sorts Of Ambition, And The Unsatisfactory Nature Of All Human Pleasures.

Who Taught That Heaven-directed Spire To Rise?

Astrologers That Future Fates Foreshow.

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.

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

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

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.

Pretty! In Amber To Observe The Forms Of Hairs, Of Straws, Or Dirt, Or Grubs, Or Worms! The Things, We Know, Are Neither Rich Nor Rare, But Wonder How The Devil They Got There.

Learn To Live Well, Or Fairly Make Your Will; You've Play'd, And Lov'd, And Ate, And Drank Your Fill: Walk Sober Off, Before A Sprightlier Age Comes Titt'ring On, And Shoves You From The Stage.

Sleep And Death, Two Twins Of Winged Race, Of Matchless Swiftness, But Of Silent Pace.

A Generous Friendship No Cold Medium Knows, Burns With One Love, With One Resentment Glows.

Of All Affliction Taught A Lover Yet, 'tis True The Hardest Science To Forget.

And Seem To Walk On Wings, And Tread In Air.

Our Judgments, Like Our Watches, None Go Just Alike, Yet Each Believes His Own

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

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

We Think Our Fathers Fools, So Wise We Grow. Our Wiser Sons, No Doubt Will Think Us So.

They Dream In Courtship, But In Wedlock Wake.

But Those Who Cannot Write, And Those Who Can, All Rhyme, And Scrawl, And Scribble, To A Man.

True Disputants Are Like True Sportsmen: Their Whole Delight Is In The Pursuit.

Coffee Which Makes The Politician Wise, And See Through All Things With His Half-shut Eyes.

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.

Live Like Yourself, Was Soon My Lady's Word, And Lo! Two Puddings Smok'd Upon The Board.

On Wings Of Wind Came Flying All Abroad.

The Worst Of Madmen Is A Saint Run Mad.

Wine Works The Heart Up, Wakes The Wit, There Is No Cure 'gainst Age But It

Though Triumphs Were To Generals Only Due, Crowns Were Reserved To Grace The Soldiers Too.

The Proper Study Of Mankind Is Man.

Occupy Yourself

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

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

These Riches Are Possess'd, But Not Enjoy'd!

Thus God And Nature Linked The Gen'ral Frame, And Bade Self-love And Social Be The Same.

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.

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

Of Fight Or Fly, This Choice Is Left Ye, To Resist Or Die.

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

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.

The World Is A Thing We Must Of Necessity Either Laugh At Or Be Angry At; If We Laugh At It, They Say We Are Proud; If We Are Angry At It, They Say We Are Ill-natured.

Some Positive Persisting Fops We Know, Who, If Once Wrong, Will Needs Be Always So; But You With Pleasure Own Your Errors Past, And Make Each Day A Critique On The Last.

O Peace! How Many Wars Were Waged In Thy Name.

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

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

Ye Gods, Annihilate But Space And Time, And Make Two Lovers Happy.

The Approach Of Night The Skies Yet Blushing With Departing Light, When Falling Dews With Spangles Deck'd The Glade, And The Low Sun Had Lengthen'd Ev'ry Shade.

In Men, We Various Ruling Passions Find; In Women, Two Almost Divide The Kind Those, Only Fixed, They First Or Last Obey, The Love Of Pleasure, And The Love Of Sway.

On Wrongs Swift Vengeance Waits.

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.

A Person Who Is Too Nice An Observer Of The Business Of The Crowd, Like One Who Is Too Curious In Observing The Labor Of Bees, Will Often Be Stung For His Curiosity.

Truth Needs Not Flowers Of Speech.

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!

Truths Would You Teach, Or Save A Sinking Land? All Fear, None Aid You, And Few Understand.

Drink Is The Feast Of Reason And The Flow Of Soul.

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.

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

It Is Not So Much The Being Exempt From Faults, As Having Overcome Them, That Is An Advantage To Us.

Where Beams Of Imagination Play, The Memory's Soft Figures Melt Away.

The Vulgar Boil, The Learned Roast, An Egg.

Some Are Bewildered In The Maze Of Schools, And Some Made Coxcombs Nature Meant But Fools.

Ask You What Provocation I Have Had? The Strong Antipathy Of Good To Bad.

Hills Peep O'er Hills, And Alps On Alps Arise.

Those Move Easiest Who Have Learn'd To Dance.

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

That Virtue Only Makes Our Bliss Below, And All Our Knowledge Is Ourselves To Know.

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.

All Looks Yellow To The Jaundiced Eye. [and Therefore The Solution Is To Fix The Jaundiced Eye.]

Blest Paper-credit! Last And Best Supply! That Lends Corruption Lighter Wings To Fly!

He Knows To Live Who Keeps The Middle State, And Neither Leans On This Side Nor On That.

The Man That Loves And Laughs Must Sure Do Well.

The Doubtful Beam Long Nods From Side To Side.

Leave Not A Foot Of Verse, A Foot Of Stone, A Page, A Grave, That They Can Call Their Own; But Spread, My Sons, Your Glory Thin Or Thick, On Passive Paper, Or On Solid Brick.

All Other Goods By Fortune's Hand Are Given, A Wife Is The Peculiar Gift Of Heaven.

And Each Blasphemer Quite Escape The Rod, Because The Insult's Not On Man, But God?

Most Authors Steal Their Works, Or Buy.

With Too Much Quickness Ever To Be Taught; With Too Much Thinking To Have Common Thought.

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

True Ease In Writing Comes From Art, Not Chance, As Those Move Easiest Who Have Learned To Dance.

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.

What Nothing Earthly Gives, Or Can Destroy, The Soul's Calm Sunshine, And The Heart-felt Joy, Is Virtue's Prize.

In Death A Hero, As In Life A Friend!

Art Still Followed Where Rome's Eagles Flew.

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

Rogues In Rags Are Kept In Countenance By Rogues In Ruffles.

And Empty Heads Console With Empty Sound.

Pleasure, Or Wrong Or Rightly Understood, Our Greatest Evil, Or Our Greatest Good.

There Is A Majesty In Simplicity.

Some Praise At Morning What They Blame At Night, But Always Think The Last Opinion Right.

Our Rural Ancestors, With Little Blest, Patient Of Labor When The End Was Rest, Indulged The Day That Housed Their Annual Grain, With Feasts, And Off'rings, And A Thankful Strain.

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.

For Critics, As They Are Birds Of Prey, Have Ever A Natural Inclination To Carrion.

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.

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.

A King Is A Mortal God On Earth, Unto Whom The Living God Hath Lent His Own Name As A Great Honour; But Withal Told Him, He Should Die Like A Man, Lest He Should Be Proud, And Flatter Himself That God Hath With His Name Imparted Unto Him His Nature Also. John Locke, "of A King", The Conduct Of The Understanding: Essays, Moral, Economical, And Political A King May Be A Tool, A Thing Of Straw; But If He Serves To Frighten Our Enemies, And Secure Our Property, It Is Well Enough: A Scarecrow Is A Thing Of Straw, But It Protects The Corn.

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.

To Be Angry Is To Revenge The Faults Of Others On Ourselves.

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

True Self-love And Social Are The Same.

Like Bubbles On The Sea Of Matter Borne, They Rise, They Break, And To That Sea Return.

Devotion's Self Shall Steal A Thought From Heaven.

The Dull Flat Falsehood Serves For Policy, And In The Cunning, Truth's Itself A Lie.

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

Tis From High Life High Characters Are Drawn; A Saint In Crape Is Twice A Saint In Lawn: A Judge Is Just, A Chanc'llor Juster Still; A Gownman Learn'd; A Bishop What You Will; Wise If A Minister; But If A King, More Wise, More Learn'd, More Just, More Ev'rything.

Oh, Sons Of Earth! Attempt Ye Still To Rise. By Mountains Pil'd On Mountains To The Skies? Heav'n Still With Laughter The Vain Toil Surveys, And Buries Madmen In The Heaps They Raise.

Men Must Be Taught As If You Taught Them Not, And Things Unknown Proposed As Things Forgot.

Be Niggards Of Advice On No Pretense; For The Worst Avarice Is That Of Sense.

Our Passions Are Like Convulsion Fits, Which, Though They Make Us Stronger For A Time, Leave Us The Weaker Ever After.

Our Grandsire, Adam, Ere Of Eve Possesst, Alone, And E'en In Paradise Unblest, With Mournful Looks The Blissful Scenes Survey'd, And Wander'd In The Solitary Shade. The Maker Say, Took Pity, And Bestow'd Woman, The Last, The Best Reserv'd Of God.

And Hence One Master-passion In The Breast, Like Aaron's Serpent, Swallows Up The Rest.

Content If Hence Th' Unlearn'd Their Wants May View, The Learn'd Reflect On What Before They Knew.

At Every Trifle Take Offense, That Always Shows Great Pride Or Little Sense.

Fame Can Never Make Us Lie Down Contentedly On A Deathbed.

Expression Is The Dress Of Thought, And Still Appears More Decent As More Suitable; A Vile Conceit In Pompous Words Express'd, Is Like A Clown In Regal Purple Dress'd.

An Honest Man's The Noblest Work Of God.

Oh! Blest With Temper, Whose Unclouded Ray Can Make To-morrow Cheerful As To-day.

Simplicity Is The Mean Between Ostentation And Rusticity.

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

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

One Thought Of Thee Puts All The Pomp To Flight; Priests, Tapers, Temples, Swim Before My Sight.

A Brain Of Feathers, And A Heart Of Lead.

Is It, In Heav'n, A Crime To Love Too Well?

For Forms Of Faith Let Graceless Zealots Fight; His Can't Be Wrong Whose Life Is In The Right.

Plays Round The Head, But Comes Not To The Heart. One Self-approving Hour Whole Years Outweighs Of Stupid Starers And Of Loud Huzzas; And More True Joy Marcellus Exil'd Feels Than Cæsar With A Senate At His Heels. In Parts Superior What Advantage Lies? Tell (for You Can) What Is It To Be Wise? 't Is But To Know How Little Can Be Known; To See All Others' Faults, And Feel Our Own.

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

See! From The Brake The Whirring Pheasant Springs, And Mounts Exulting On Triumphant Wings; Short Is His Joy! He Feels The Fiery Wound, Flutters In Blood, And Panting Beats The Ground.

How Happy Is The Blameless Vestal's Lot? The World Forgetting, By The World Forgot.

Unblemish'd Let Me Live Or Die Unknown; Oh, Grant An Honest Fame, Or Grant Me None!

I Believe It Is No Wrong Observation, That Persons Of Genius, And Those Who Are Most Capable Of Art, Are Always Fond Of Nature, As Such Are Chiefly Sensible, That All Art Consists In The Imitation And Study Of Nature. On The Contrary, People Of The Common Level Of Understanding Are Principally Delighted With The Little Niceties And Fantastical Operations Of Art, And Constantly Think That Finest Which Is Least Natural.

I Think A Good Deal May Be Said To Extenuate The Fault Of Bad Poets. What We Call A Genius, Is Hard To Be Distinguish'd By A Man Himself, From A Strong Inclination: And If His Genius Be Ever So Great, He Can Not At First Discover It Any Other Way, Than By Giving Way To That Prevalent Propensity Which Renders Him The More Liable To Be Mistaken.

The Lot Of Man - To Suffer And To Die.

In A Sadly Pleasing Strain, Let The Warbling Lute Complain.

Histories Are More Full Of Examples Of The Fidelity Of Dogs Than Of Friends.

An Obstinate Person Does Not Hold Opinions; They Hold Them.

Nor In The Critic Let The Man Be Lost.

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

The Laughers Are A Majority.

You Eat, In Dreams, The Custard Of The Day.

Be Thou The First True Merit To Befriend, His Praise Is Lost Who Stays Till All Commend.

Love Seldom Haunts The Breast Where Learning Lies, And Venus Sets Ere Mercury Can Rise.

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.

Who Are Next To Knaves? Those That Converse With Them.

The Bookful Blockhead Ignorantly Read, With Loads Of Learned Lumber In His Head, With His Own Tongue Still Edifies His Ears, And Always List'ning To Himself Appears. All Books He Reads, And All He Reads Assails.

For Lo! The Board With Cups And Spoons Is Crowned.the Berries Crackle, And The Mill Turns Round ... At Once They Gratify Their Scent And Taste.and Frequent Cups Prolong The Rich Repast... Coffee (which Makes The Politician Wise And See Through All Things With His Half-shut Eyes).

Where's The Man Who Counsel Can Bestow, Still Pleased To Teach, And Yet Not Proud To Know.

A Good-natured Man Has The Whole World To Be Happy Out Of.

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.

Not Grace, Or Zeal, Love Only Was My Call, And If I Lose Thy Love, I Lose My All.

Nature Made Every Fop To Plague His Brother, Just As One Beauty Mortifies Another.

But Satan Now Is Wiser Than Of Yore, And Tempts By Making Rich, Not Making Poor.

To Wake The Soul By Tender Strokes Of Art, To Raise The Genius, And To Mend The Heart

A Disputant No More Cares For The Truth Than The Sportsman For The Hare.

See Skulking Truth To Her Old Cavern Fled, Mountains Of Casuistry Heap'd O'er Her Head! Philosophy, That Lean'd On Heav'n Before, Shrinks To Her Second Cause, And Is No More. Physic Of Metaphysic Begs Defence, And Metaphysic Calls For Aid On Sense! See Mystery To Mathematics Fly!

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.

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

Tis But A Part We See, And Not A Whole.

There Is A Certain Majesty In Simplicity Which Is Far Above All The Quaintness Of Wit.

If A Man's Character Is To Be Abused There's Nobody Like A Relative To Do The Business.

What Is It To Be Wise? 'tis But To Know How Little Can Be Known, To See All Others' Faults, And Feel Our Own.

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.

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.

In Every Work Regard The Writer's End, Since None Can Compass More Than They Intend.

Th' Unwilling Gratitude Of Base Mankind!

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