Wine lets no lover unrewarded go.

To endeavor to work upon the vulgar with fine sense is like attempting to hew blocks with a razor.

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.

On life's vast ocean diversely we sail. Reasons the card, but passion the gale.

What woeful stuff this madrigal would be, In some starved hackney sonneteer, or me! But let a lord once own the happy lines, How the wit brightens! how the style refines!

Praise from a friend, or censure from a foe, Are lost on hearers that our merits know.

Therefore they who say our thoughts are not our own because they resemble the Ancients, may as well say our faces are not our own, because they are like our Fathers: And indeed it is very unreasonable, that people should expect us to be Scholars, and yet be angry to find us so.