It Can't Be Nature, For It Is

Truth! Why Shall Every Wretch Of Letters Dare To Speak Truth Against His Betters! Let Ragged Virtue Stand Aloof, Nor Mutter Accents Of Reproof; Let Ragged Wit A Mute Become, When Wealth And Power Would Have Her Dumb.

Within The Brain's Most Secret Cells, A Certain Lord Chief Justice Dwells, Of Sov'reign Power, Whom One And All, With Common Voice We Reason Call.

Nature, Through All Her Works, In Great Degree, Borrows A Blessing From Variety. Music Itself Her Needful Aid Requires To Rouse The Soul, And Wake Our Dying Fires.

Wherever Waves Can Roll, And Winds Can Blow.

What Is This World?--a Term Which Men Have Got, To Signify Not One In Ten Knows What; A Term, Which With No More Precision Passes To Point Out Herds Of Men Than Herds Of Asses; In Common Use No More It Means, We Find, Than Many Fools In Same Opinions Joined.