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.

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.

If You Mean To Profit, Learn To Praise.

Nature Listening Stood, Whilst Shakespeare Play'd And Wonder'd At The Work Herself Had Made.

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