Authors, Like Coins, Grow Dear As They

No Silver Saints, By Dying Misers Giv'n, Here Brib'd The Rage Of Ill-requited Heav'n; But Such Plain Roofs As Piety Could Raise, And Only Vocal With The Maker's Praise.

Whoe'er He Be That Tells My Faults, I Hate Him Mortally.

Thus God And Nature Linked The Gen'ral Frame, And Bade Self-love And Social Be The Same.

Curse On All Laws But Those Which Love Has Made.

As With Narrow-necked Bottles; The Less They Have In Them, The More Noise They Make In Pouring Out.