There Goes A Saying, And

Oh, Blindness To The Future! Kindly Giv'n, That Each May Fill The Circle Mark'd By Heaven.

Wise Wretch! With Pleasures Too Refined To Please, With Too Much Spirit To Be E'er At Ease, With Too Much Quickness Ever To Be Taught, With Too Much Thinking To Have Common Thought: You Purchase Pain With All That Joy Can Give, And Die Of Nothing But A Rage To Live.

One Science Only Will One Genius Fit; So Vast Is Art, So Narrow Human Wit.

Most Authors Steal Their Works, Or Buy.

As Some To Church Repair, Not For The Doctrine, But The Music There. These Equal Syllables Alone Require, Though Oft The Ear The Open Vowels Tire While Expletives Their Feeble Aid Do Join, And Ten Low Words Oft Creep In One Dull Line.