Nor Waste Their Sweetness In The Desert

With That Malignant Envy Which Turns Pale, And Sickens, Even If A Friend Prevail.

Greatly His Foes He Dreads, But More His Friends; He Hurts Me Most Who Lavishly Commends.

Weak Is That Throne, And In Itself Unsound, Which Takes Not Solid Virtue For Its Ground.

Whom Drink Made Wits, Though Nature Made Them Fools.

Most Of Those Evils We Poor Mortals Know From Doctors And Imagination Flow.