On The Four Aces Doom'd To Roll.

When Fiction Rises Pleasing To The Eye, Men Will Believe, Because They Love The Lie; But Truth Herself, If Clouded With A Frown, Must Have Some Solemn Proof To Pass Her Down.

Fame Is Nothing But An Empty Name.

To Copy Beauty Forfeits All Pretense To Fame; To Copy Faults Is Want Of Sense

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

Who All In Raptures Their Own Works Rehearse, And Drawl Out Measur'd Prose, Which They Call Verse.