The Hog That Ploughs Not,

Know Then Thyself, Presume Not God To Scan; The Proper Study Of Mankind Is Man.

Conceit Is To Nature What Paint Is To Beauty; It Is Not Only Needless, But It Impairs What It Would Improve.

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?

And More Than Echoes Talk Along The Walls.

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