Teach Me To Feel Another's Woe, To

Condition, Circumstance, Is Not The Thing; Bliss Is The Same In Subject Or In King.

Wine Lets No Lover Unrewarded Go.

Wise Wretch! With Pleasures Too Refined To Please, With Too Much Spirit To Be E'er At Ease, With Too Much Quickness Ever To Be Taught, With Too Much Thinking To Have Common Thought: You Purchase Pain With All That Joy Can Give, And Die Of Nothing But A Rage To Live.

Some To Conceit Alone Their Taste Confine, And Glittering Thoughts Struck Out At Ev'ry Line; Pleas'd With A Work Where Nothing's Just Or Fit; One Glaring Chaos And Wild Heap Of Wit.

Ye Gods, Annihilate But Space And Time, And Make Two Lovers Happy.