Good sense, which only is the gift of Heaven, And though no science, fairly worth the seven.

Yet graceful ease, and sweetness void of pride, Might hide her faults, if belles had faults to hide: If to her share some female errors fall, Look on her face, and you'll forget 'em all.

Pride, where wit fails, steps in to our defence, and fills up all the mighty void of sense.

On wrongs swift vengeance waits.

These riches are possess'd, but not enjoy'd!

What dire offence from am'rous causes springs, What mighty contests rise from trivial things.

The race by vigour, not by vaunts, is won.