Ev'n Wit's A Burthen, When It Talks

God Never Made His Work For Man To Mend.

Mere Poets Are Sottish As Mere Drunkards Are, Who Live In A Continual Mist, Without Seeing Or Judging Anything Clearly. A Man Should Be Learned In Several Sciences, And Should Have A Reasonable, Philosophical And In Some Measure A Mathematical Head, To Be A Complete And Excellent Poet.

Bets At First Were Fool-traps, Where The Wise Like Spiders Lay In Ambush For The Flies.

Love And Time With Reverence Use, Treat Them Like A Parting Friend: Nor The Golden Gifts Refuse Which In Youth Sincere They Send: For Each Year Their Price Is More, And They Less Simple Than Before.

Ever A Glutton, At Another's Cost, But In Whose Kitchen Dwells Perpetual Frost.