One science only will one genius fit; so vast is art, so narrow human wit.

Content if hence th' unlearn'd their wants may view, The learn'd reflect on what before they knew.

To swear is neither brave, polite, nor wise.

While pensive poets painful vigils keep, Sleepless themselves, to give their readers sleep.

Words are like Leaves; and where they most abound, Much Fruit of Sense beneath is rarely found.

Fair tresses man's imperial race ensnare; And beauty draws us with a single hair.

The bookful blockhead ignorantly read, With loads of learned lumber in his head, With his own tongue still edifies his ears, And always list'ning to himself appears. All books he reads, and all he reads assails.