Whom Drink Made Wits, Though Nature Made

Nature, Through All Her Works, In Great Degree, Borrows A Blessing From Variety. Music Itself Her Needful Aid Requires To Rouse The Soul, And Wake Our Dying Fires.

Satire, Whilst Envy And Ill-humor Sway The Mind Of Man, Must Always Make Her Way; Nor To A Bosom, With Discretion Fraught, Is All Her Malice Worth A Single Thought. The Wise Have Not The Will, Nor Fools The Power, To Stop Her Headstrong Course; Within The Hour Left To Herself, She Dies; Opposing Strife Gives Her Fresh Vigor, And Prolongs Her Life.

All Hunt For Fame, But Most Mistake The Way.

The Rigid Saint, By Whom No Mercy's Shown To Saints Whose Lives Are Better Than His Own.

With That Malignant Envy Which Turns Pale, And Sickens, Even If A Friend Prevail.