Wit, Who Never Once Forgave

To Copy Beauty Forfeits All Pretense To Fame; To Copy Faults Is Want Of Sense

Enough Of Satire; In Less Harden'd Times Great Was Her Force, And Mighty Were Her Rhymes. I've Read Of Men, Beyond Man's Daring Brave, Who Yet Have Trembled At The Strokes She Gave; Whose Souls Have Felt More Terrible Alarms From Her One Line, Than From A World In Arms.

The Surest Way To Health, Say What They Will, Is Never To Suppose We Shall Be Ill; Most Of The Ills Which We Poor Mortals Know From Doctors And Imagination Flow.

When Fiction Rises Pleasing To The Eye, Men Will Believe, Because They Love The Lie; But Truth Herself, If Clouded With A Frown, Must Have Some Solemn Proof To Pass Her Down.

Nature Listening Stood, Whilst Shakespeare Play'd And Wonder'd At The Work Herself Had Made.