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

Nay, fly to altars; there they'll talk you dead; For fools rush in where angels fear to tread.

All nature is but art unknown to thee.

Now warm in love, now with'ring in my bloom Lost in a convent's solitary gloom!

In men, we various ruling passions find; In women, two almost divide the kind Those, only fixed, they first or last obey, The love of pleasure, and the love of sway.

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

As some to church repair, Not for the doctrine, but the music there. These equal syllables alone require, Though oft the ear the open vowels tire While expletives their feeble aid do join, And ten low words oft creep in one dull line.