Yet graceful ease, and sweetness void of pride, Might hide her faults, if belles had faults to hide: If to her share some female errors fall, Look on her face, and you'll forget 'em all.

Words are like Leaves; and where they most abound, Much Fruit of Sense beneath is rarely found.

A brave man struggling in the storms of fate, And greatly falling with a falling state.

That each from other differs, first confess; next that he varies from himself no less.

How do we know that we have a right to kill creatures that we are so little above, as dogs, for our curiosity or even for some use to us?

Who breaks a butterfly on a wheel?

But those who cannot write, and those who can, All rhyme, and scrawl, and scribble, to a man.