Wherever Waves Can Roll, And Winds Can

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

Quick-circulating Slanders Mirth Afford; And Reputation Bleeds In Every Word.

Little Do Such Men Know The Toil, The Pains, The Daily, Nightly Racking Of The Brains, To Range The Thoughts, The Matter To Digest, To Cull Fit Phrases, And Reject The Rest.

Ourselves Are To Ourselves The Cause Of Ill.

No Tribute Is Laid On Castles In The Air.