Authors are partial to their wit, 'tis true, But are not critics to their judgment, too?
To wake the soul by tender strokes of art, To raise the genius, and to mend the heart; To make mankind, in conscious virtue bold, Live o'er each Seene, and be what they behold: For this the Tragic Muse first trod the stage.
The zeal of fools offends at any time.
A brain of feathers, and a heart of lead.
Time conquers all, and we must time obey.
You purchase pain with all that joy can give and die of nothing but a rage to live.