Wherever Waves Can Roll, And Winds Can

With Various Readings Stored His Empty Skull, Learn'd Without Sense, And Venerably Dull.

Tis Mighty Easy O'er A Glass Of Wine On Vain Refinements Vainly To Refine, To Laugh At Poverty In Plenty's Reign, To Boast Of Apathy When Out Of Pain, And In Each Sentence, Worthy Of The Schools, Varnish'd With Sophistry, To Deal Out Rules Most Fit For Practice, But For One Poor Fault That Into Practice They Can Ne'er Be Brought.

Patience Is Sorrow's Salve.

To Copy Faults Is Want Of Sense.

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