An Evil Intention Perverts The Best Actions,

Nothing Makes Men Sharper Than Want.

Oh! Think What Anxious Moments Pass Between The Birth Of Plots, And Their Last Fatal Periods, Oh! 'tis A Dreadful Interval Of Time, Filled Up With Horror All, And Big With Death!

Wit Is The Fetching Of Congruity Out Of Incongruity.

The World Is So Full Of Ill-nature That I Have Lampoons Sent Me By People Who Cannot Spell, And Satires Composed By Those Who Scarce Know How To Write.

The Ways Of Heaven Are Dark And Intricate, Puzzled In Mazes, And Perplex'd With Errors; Our Understanding Traces Them In Vain, Lost And Bewilder'd In The Fruitless Search; Nor Sees With How Much Art The Windings Run, Nor Where The Regular Confusion Ends.