Wit And Judgment Often Are At Strife.

Wise Wretch! With Pleasures Too Refined To Please, With Too Much Spirit To Be E'er At Ease, With Too Much Quickness Ever To Be Taught, With Too Much Thinking To Have Common Thought: You Purchase Pain With All That Joy Can Give, And Die Of Nothing But A Rage To Live.

Nor In The Critic Let The Man Be Lost.

Know Then, Unnumber'd Spirits Round Thee Fly, The Light Militia Of The Lower Sky.

With Too Much Quickness Ever To Be Taught; With Too Much Thinking To Have Common Thought.

Let Such Teach Others Who Themselves Excel, And Censure Freely Who Have Written Well.