The Life Of A Wit Is A

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

Envy, To Which Th' Ignoble Mind's A Slave, Is Emulation In The Learn'd Or Brave.

With Sharpen'd Sight Pale Antiquaries Pore, Th' Inscription Value, But The Rust Adore. This The Blue Varnish, That The Green Endears; The Sacred Rust Of Twice Ten Hundred Years.

Man Never Thinks Himself Happy, But When He Enjoys Those Things Which Others Want Or Desire.

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