Pleased to the last, he crops the flowery food, And licks the hand just raised to shed his blood.
But blind to former as to future fate, what mortal knows his pre-existent state?
Be thou the first true merit to befriend, his praise is lost who stays till all commend.
A mighty maze! But not without a plan.
As the twig is bent, so grows the tree.
A wit with dunces, and a dunce with wits.