Praise from a friend, or censure from a foe, Are lost on hearers that our merits know.
Be not the first by whom the new are tried, Nor yet the last to lay the old aside.
The flower's are gone when the Fruits appear to ripen.
Virtue she finds too painful an endeavour, content to dwell in decencies for ever.
Go, wiser thou! and in thy scale of sense weigh thy opinion against Providence.
Say first, of god above or man below; what can we reason but from what we know.