Here am I, dying of a hundred good symptoms.

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

The only time you run out of chances is when you stop taking them

'Tis not enough your counsel still be true; Blunt truths more mischief than nice falsehoods do.

A patriot is a fool in ev'ry age.

Then, at the last and only couplet fraught With some unmeaning thing they call a thought, A needless Alexandrine ends the song, That, like a wounded snake, drags its slow length along.

I begin where most people end, with a full conviction of the emptiness of all sorts of ambition, and the unsatisfactory nature of all human pleasures.