True self-love and social are the same.
Music resembles poetry, in each Are nameless graces which no methods teach, And which a master hand alone can reach.
Virtue she finds too painful an endeavour, content to dwell in decencies for ever.
So perish all who do the like again.
Trust not yourself, but your defects to know, make use of every friend and every foe.
Words are like Leaves; and where they most abound, Much Fruit of Sense beneath is rarely found.