Pride is still aiming at the best houses: Men would be angels, angels would be gods. Aspiring to be gods, if angels fell; aspiring to be angels men rebel.
What Reason weaves, by Passion is undone.
By flatterers besieged And so obliging that he ne'er obliged.
In lazy apathy let stoics boast, their virtue fixed, 'tis fixed as in a frost.
And seem to walk on wings, and tread in air.
Whoe'er he be That tells my faults, I hate him mortally.