But those who cannot write, and those who can, All rhyme, and scrawl, and scribble, to a man.
When much dispute has past, we find our tenets just the same as last.
The dull flat falsehood serves for policy, and in the cunning, truth's itself a lie.
Heaven from all creatures hides the book of Fate.
Some praise at morning what they blame at night, but always think the last opinion right.
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!