Envy will merit, as its shade, pursue

Good sense, which only is the gift of Heaven, And though no science, fairly worth the seven.

Fickle Fortune reigns, and, undiscerning, scatters crowns and chains.

Lo! The poor Indian, whose untutored mind sees God in clouds, or hears him in the wind.

While pensive poets painful vigils keep, Sleepless themselves, to give their readers sleep.

What will a child learn sooner than a song?

The proper study of Mankind is Man.