Chiefs who no more in bloody fights engage, But wise through time, and narrative with age, In summer-days like grasshoppers rejoice - A bloodless race, that send a feeble voice.

Some judge of authors' names, not works, and then Nor praise nor blame the writings, but the men.

Such labour'd nothings, in so strange a style, Amaze th' unlearn'd and make the learned smile.

Atheists put on false courage and alacrity in the midst of their darkness and apprehensions, like children who, when they fear to go in the dark, will sing for fear.

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.

Light quirks of music, broken and uneven,Make the soul dance upon a jig to Heav'n.

Die of a rose in aromatic pain.