The Proud Are Ever Most Provoked By

Absence Of Occupation Is Not Rest; A Mind Quite Vacant Is A Mind Distressed.

How Sweet, How Passing Sweet, Is Solitude! But Grant Me Still A Friend In My Retreat, Whom I May Whisper, Solitude Is Sweet.

Pity! Religion Has So Seldom Found A Skilful Guide Into Poetic Ground! The Flowers Would Spring Where'er She Deign'd To Stray And Every Muse Attend Her In Her Way.

How Fleet Is A Glance Of The Mind! Compared With The Speed Of Its Flight, The Tempest Itself Lags Behind, And The Swift-winged Arrows Of Light.

Unless A Love Of Virtue Light The Flame, Satire Is, More Than Those He Brands, To Blame; He Hides Behind A Magisterial Air He Own Offences, And Strips Others' Bare.