Some are bewildered in the maze of schools, And some made coxcombs nature meant but fools.

All are but parts of one stupendous whole, Whose body Nature is, and God the soul.

Whoe'er he be That tells my faults, I hate him mortally.

But those who cannot write, and those who can, All rhyme, and scrawl, and scribble, to a man.

With too much quickness ever to be taught; With too much thinking to have common thought.

Fondly we think we honor merit then, when we but praise ourselves in other men.

Is not absence death to those who love?