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False Happiness Is Like False Money; It Passes For A Time As Well As The True, And Serves Some Ordinary Occasions; But When It Is Brought To The Touch, We Find The Lightness And Alloy, And Feel The Loss.

-Alexander Pope

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False Happiness Is Like

Alexander Pope

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False Happiness Is Like False Money; It Passes For A Time As Well As The True, And Serves Some Ordinary Occasions; But When It Is Brought To The Touch, We Find The Lightness And Alloy, And Feel The Loss.

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Heav'n First Taught Letters For Some Wretch's Aid, Some Banish'd Lover, Or Some Captive Maid.

True Politeness Consists In Being Easy One's Self, And In Making Every One About One As Easy As One Can.

On Life's Vast Ocean Diversely We Sail. Reasons The Card, But Passion The Gale.

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

Blessed Is The Man Who Expects Nothing, For He Shall Never Be Disappointed Was The Ninth Beatitude.

Wit In Conversation Is Only A Readiness Of Thought And A Facility Of Expression, Or A Quick Conception And An Easy Delivery.

Whatever Is, Is Right.

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.

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.

Let Such Teach Others Who Themselves Excel, And Censure Freely Who Have Written Well.

A Perfect Judge Will Read Each Work Of Wit With The Same Spirit That Its Author Writ: Survey The Whole, Nor Seek Slight Faults To Find Where Nature Moves, And Rapture Warms The Mind.

Here Am I, Dying Of A Hundred Good Symptoms.

Famous Last Words

The Pure And Noble, The Graceful And Dignified, Simplicity Of Language Is Nowhere In Such Perfection As In The Scriptures And Homer. The Whole Book Of Job, With Regard Both To Sublimity Of Thought And Morality, Exceeds, Beyond All Comparison, The Most Noble Parts Of Homer.

Is It, In Heav'n, A Crime To Love Too Well? To Bear Too Tender Or Too Firm A Heart, To Act A Lover's Or A Roman's Part? Is There No Bright Reversion In The Sky For Those Who Greatly Think, Or Bravely Die?

A Fly, A Grape-stone, Or A Hair Can Kill.

Mankind Is Unamendable.

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.

A Mighty Maze! But Not Without A Plan.

But Thinks, Admitted To That Equal Sky, His Faithful Dog Shall Bear Him Company.

To Be, Contents His Natural Desire, He Asks No Angel's Wing, No Seraph's Fire; But Thinks, Admitted To That Equal Sky, His Faithful Dog Shall Bear Him Company. Go Wiser Thou! And In Thy Scale Of Sense Weigh Thy Opinion Against Providence.

If It Be The Chief Point Of Friendship To Comply With A Friends Motions And Inclinations, He Possesses This In A Eminent Degree; He Lies Down When I Sit, And Walks When I Walk, Which Is More Than Many Good Friends Can Pretend To Do.

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.

Interspersed In Lawn And Opening Glades, Thin Trees Arise That Shun Each Others' Shades.

So Modern 'pothecaries, Taught The Art By Doctor's Bills To Play The Doctor's Part, Bold In The Practice Of Mistaken Rules, Prescribe, Apply, And Call Their Masters Fools.

And Little Eagles Wave Their Wings In Gold.

I Lisp'd In Numbers, For The Numbers Came.

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.

Ambition First Sprung From Your Blest Abodes: The Glorious Fault Of Angels And Of Gods.

Nor Fame I Slight, Nor Her Favors Call.

And Make Each Day A Critic On The Last.

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

What Then Remains, But Well Our Power To Use, And Keep Good-humor Still Whate'er We Lose? And Trust Me, Dear, Good-humor Can Prevail, When Airs, And Flights, And Screams, And Scolding Fail.

All Nature Is But Art Unknown To Thee.

The Vulgar Boil, The Learned Roast, An Egg.

Never Elated When Someone's Oppressed, Never Dejected When Another One's Blessed.

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

To Swear Is Neither Brave, Polite, Nor Wise.

Why Has Not Man A Microscopic Eye? For This Plain Reason, Man Is Not A Fly. Say What The Use, Were Finer Optics Giv'n, T' Inspect A Mite, Not Comprehend The Heav'n.

Then Sculpture And Her Sister Arts Revived; Stones Leaped To Form, And Rocks Began To Live.

Like Following Life Through Creatures You Dissect, You Lose It In The Moment You Detect.

How Glowing Guilt Exalts The Keen Delight!

No More Was Seen The Human Form Divine.

No Silver Saints, By Dying Misers Giv'n, Here Brib'd The Rage Of Ill-requited Heav'n; But Such Plain Roofs As Piety Could Raise, And Only Vocal With The Maker's Praise.

If Faith Itself Has Different Dresses Worn, What Wonder Modes In Wit Should Take Their Turn?

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

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.

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

Fine Sense And Exalted Sense Are Not Half So Useful As Common Sense. There Are Forty Men Of Wit For One Man Of Sense; And He That Will Carry Nothing About Him But Gold, Will Be Every Day At A Loss For Want Of Readier Change.

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

The Lights And Shades, Whose Well-accorded Strife Gives All The Strength And Color Of Our Life.

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

When To Mischief Mortals Bend Their Will, How Soon They Find It Instruments Of Ill.

Ladies, Like Variegated Tulips, Show 'tis To Their Changes Half Their Charms We Owe.

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

Women Use Lovers As They Do Cards; They Play With Them A While, And When They Have Got All They Can By Them, Throw Them Away, Call For New Ones, And Then Perhaps Lose By The New All They Got By The Old Ones.

The Soul's Calm Sunshine, And The Heartfelt Joy.

And More Than Echoes Talk Along The Walls.

How Index-learning Turns No Student Pale, Yet Holds The Eel Of Science By The Tail!

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.

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.

Envy Will Merit As Its Shade Pursue, But Like A Shadow, Proves The Substance True.

Know, Nature's Children All Divide Her Care, The Fur That Warms A Monarch Warmed A Bear.

Heaven Forming Each On Other To Depend, A Master, Or A Servant, Or A Friend, Bids Each On Other For Assistance Call, Till One Man's Weakness Grows The Strength Of All.

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.

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

What Will A Child Learn Sooner Than A Song?

Oh, When Shall Britain, Conscious Of Her Claim, Stand Emulous Of Greek And Roman Fame? In Living Medals See Her Wars Enroll'd, And Vanquished Realms Supply Recording Gold?

As The Twig Is Bent, So Grows The Tree.

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

Taste, That Eternal Wanderer, Which Flies From Head To Ears, And Now From Ears To Eyes.

Vast Chain Of Being! Which From God Began, Natures Ethereal, Human, Angel, Man, Beast, Bird, Fish, Insect, What No Eye Can See, No Glass Can Reach, From Infinite To Thee, From Thee To Nothing.

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

Lo, What Huge Heaps Of Littleness Around!

Satire Or Sense, Alas! Can Sporus Feel? Who Breaks A Butterfly Upon A Wheel?

This Long Disease, My Life.

Praise Undeserved, Is Satire In Disguise.

On Cold December Fragrant Chaplets Blow, And Heavy Harvests Nod Beneath The Snow.

If, Presume Not To God To Scan; The Proper Study Of Mankind Is Man. Plac'd On This Isthmus Of A Middle State, A Being Darkly Wise, And Rudely Great.

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

Virtue Alone Is Happiness Below.

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

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.

A Field Of Glory Is A Field For All.

There Is Nothing That Is Meritorious But Virtue And Friendship.

For What I Have Publish'd, I Can Only Hope To Be Pardon'd; But For What I Have Burned, I Deserve To Be Prais'd.

That Character In Conversation Which Commonly Passes For Agreeable Is Made Up Of Civility And Falsehood.

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.

Poets Like Painters, Thus Unskilled To Trace The Naked Nature And The Living Grace, With Gold And Jewels Cover Ev'ry Part, And Hide With Ornaments Their Want Of Art. True Wit Is Nature To Advantage Dressed, What Oft Was Thought, But Ne'er So Well Expressed.

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

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

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

Yet Graceful Ease, And Sweetness Void Of Pride, Might Hide Her Faults, If Belles Had Faults To Hide: If To Her Share Some Female Errors Fall, Look On Her Face, And You'll Forget 'em All.

Beauty That Shocks You, Parts That None Will Trust, Wit That Can Creep, And Pride That Licks The Dust.

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

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

Order Is Heaven's First Law.

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

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

Praise Is Like Ambergrease: A Little Whiff Of It, And By Snatches, Is Very Agreeable; But When A Man Holds A Whole Lump Of It To Your Nose, It Is A Stink, And Strikes You Down.

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

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

The Villain's Censure Is Extorted Praise.

You Beat Your Pate, And Fancy Wit Will Come: Knock As You Please, There's No Body At Home.

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

Fine Sense And Exalted Sense Are Not Half So Useful As Common Sense.

A Wit With Dunces, And A Dunce With Wits.

Tis True, 'tis Certain; Man, Though Dead, Retains Part Of Himself; The Immortal Mind Remains.

Reason's Whole Pleasure, All The Joys Of Sense, Lie In Three Words,-health, Peace, And Competence.

The Greatest Magnifying Glasses In The World Are A Man's Own Eyes When They Look Upon His Own Person.

The Learned Is Happy, Nature To Explore; The Fool Is Happy, That He Knows No More.

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

When To The Permanent Is Sacrificed The Mutable, The Prize Is Thine: The Drop Returneth Whence It Came. The Open Path Leads To The Changeless Change - Non-being, The Glorious State Of Absoluteness, The Bliss Past Human Thought.

A Little Learning Is A Dangerous Thing; Drink Deep, Or Taste Not The Pierian Spring.

Destroy All Creatures For Thy Sport Or Gust, Yet Cry, If Man's Unhappy, God's Unjust.

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

Virtue May Choose The High Or Low Degree, 'tis Just Alike To Virtue, And To Me; Dwell In A Monk, Or Light Upon A King, She's Still The Same Belov'd, Contented Thing.

Die Of A Rose In Aromatic Pain.

But See How Oft Ambition's Aims Are Cross'd, And Chiefs Contend 'til All The Prize Is Lost!

The Blest To-day Is As Completely So, As Who Began A Thousand Years Ago.

Tis All In Vain To Keep A Constant Pother About One Vice And Fall Into Another.

Passions Are The Gales Of Life.

I Am Satisfied To Trifle Away My Time, Rather Than Let It Stick By Me.

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

Lulled In The Countless Chambers Of The Brain, Our Thoughts Are Linked By Many A Hidden Chain; Awake But One, And In, What Myriads Rise!

'tis Not A Lip, Or Eye, We Beauty Call, But The Joint Force And Full Result Of All.

The Most Positive Men Are The Most Credulous.

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 Cabinets Of The Sick And The Closets Of The Dead Have Been Ransacked To Publish Private Letters And Divulge To All Mankind The Most Secret Sentiments Of Friendship.

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

Some Judge Of Authors' Names, Not Works, And Then Nor Praise Nor Blame The Writings, But The Men.

Education Forms The Common Mind.

Pretty Conceptions, Fine Metaphors, Glittering Expressions, And Something Of A Neat Cast Of Verse Are Properly The Dress, Gems, Or Loose Ornaments Of Poetry.

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

Is That A Birthday? 'tis, Alas! Too Clear; 'tis But The Funeral Of The Former Year.

The Mouse That Always Trusts To One Poor Hole Can Never Be A Mouse Of Any Soul.

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

Who Dies In Youth And Vigour, Dies The Best.

When We Are Young, We Are Slavishly Employed In Procuring Something Whereby We May Live Comfortably When We Grow Old; And When We Are Old, We Perceive It Is Too Late To Live As We Proposed.

It Often Happens That Those Are The Best People Whose Characters Have Been Most Injured By Slanderers: As We Usually Find That To Be The Sweetest Fruit Which The Birds Have Been Picking At.

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

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

See Christians, Jews, One Heavy Sabbath Keep, And All The Western World Believe And Sleep.

In Various Talk Th' Instructive Hours They Past, Who Gave The Ball, Or Paid The Visit Last; One Speaks The Glory Of The British Queen, And One Describes A Charming Indian Screen; A Third Interprets Motions, Looks, And Eyes; At Every Word A Reputation Dies.

Oh! If To Dance All Night, And Dress All Day, Charm'd The Small-pox, Or Chas'd Old Age Away; . . . . To Patch, Nay Ogle, Might Become A Saint, Nor Could It Sure Be Such A Sin To Paint.

I Find Myself Hoping A Total End Of All The Unhappy Divisions Of Mankind By Party-spirit, Which At Best Is But The Madness Of Many For The Gain Of A Few.

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

Every Woman Is At Heart A Rake.

Of Little Use, The Man You May Suppose, Who Says In Verse What Others Say In Prose; Yet Let Me Show A Poet's Of Some Weight, And (though No Soldier) Useful To The State, What Will A Child Learn Sooner Than A Song? What Better Teach A Foreigner The Tongue? What's Long Or Short, Each Accent Where To Place And Speak In Public With Some Sort Of Grace?

There Never Was Any Party, Faction, Sect, Or Cabal Whatsoever, In Which The Most Ignorant Were Not The Most Violent; For A Bee Is Not A Busier Animal Than A Blockhead.

The Doubtful Beam Long Nods From Side To Side.

Like Cato, Give His Little Senate Laws, And Sit Attentive To His Own Applause.

Most Authors Steal Their Works, Or Buy.

Mark What Unvary'd Laws Preserve Each State, Laws Wise As Nature, And As Fixed As Fate.

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

In Vain Sedate Reflections We Would Make When Half Our Knowledge We Must Snatch, Not Take.

Our Proper Bliss Depends On What We Blame.

Who Pants For Glory, Finds But Short Repose; A Breath Revives Him, Or A Breath O'erthrows.

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

Who Sees With Equal Eye, As God Of All, A Hero Perish Or A Sparrow Fall, Atoms Or Systems Into Ruin Hurl'd, And Now A Bubble Burst, And Now A World.

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

On Wrongs Swift Vengeance Waits.

The Light Of Heaven Restore; Give Me To See, And Ajax Asks No More.

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.

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

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

What's Fame? A Fancy'd Life In Other's Breath. A Thing Beyond Us, Even Before Our Death.

Cursed Be The Verse, How Well So E'er It Flow, That Tends To Make One Worthy Man My Foe.

Virtuous And Vicious Every Man Must Be, Few In The Extreme, But All In The Degree.

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.

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.

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

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

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

Time Conquers All, And We Must Time Obey.

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

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.

And Die Of Nothing But A Rage To Live.

See The Wild Waste Of All-devouring Years! How Rome Her Own Sad Sepulchre Appears, With Nodding Arches, Broken Temples Spread! The Very Tombs Now Vanish'd Like Their Dead!

Heav'n From All Creatures Hides The Book Of Fate, All But The Page Prescribed, Their Present State: From Brutes What Men, From Men What Spirits Know: Or Who Could Suffer Being Here Below?

A Brain Of Feathers, And A Heart Of Lead.

Who Ne'er Knew Joy But Friendship Might Divide,or Gave His Father Grief But When He Died.

Ah! What Avails It Me The Flocks To Keep, Who Lost My Heart While I Preserv'd My Sheep.

Fool, 'tis In Vain From Wit To Wit To Roam: Know, Sense, Like Charity, Begins At Home.

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

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.

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

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.

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

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

He Who Serves His Brother Best Gets Nearer God Than All The Rest.

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.

Dogs, Ye Have Had Your Day!

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

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.

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.

Then From The Mint Walks Forth The Man Of Rhyme, Happy To Catch Me, Just At Dinner-time.

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

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

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

Fondly We Think We Honor Merit Then, When We But Praise Ourselves In Other Men.

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