And make each day a critic on the last.
At ev'ry word a reputation dies.
The soul's calm sunshine, and the heartfelt joy.
The dull flat falsehood serves for policy, and in the cunning, truth's itself a lie.
All Nature is but art, unknown to thee All chance, direction, which thou canst not see; All discord, harmony not understood; All partial evil, universal good.
Careless of censure, nor too fond of fame, Still pleased to praise, yet not afraid to blame, Averse alike to flatter or offend, Not free from faults, nor yet too vain to mend.