But blind to former as to future fate, what mortal knows his pre-existent state?

How happy is the blameless vestal's lot? The world forgetting, by the world forgot.

Authors are partial to their wit, 'tis true, But are not critics to their judgment, too?

Blessed is the man who expects nothing, for he shall never be disappointed was the ninth beatitude.

'Tis not enough your counsel still be true; Blunt truths more mischief than nice falsehoods do.

I believe it is no wrong Observation, that Persons of Genius, and those who are most capable of Art, are always fond of Nature, as such are chiefly sensible, that all Art consists in the Imitation and Study of Nature. On the contrary, People of the common Level of Understanding are principally delighted with the Little Niceties and Fantastical Operations of Art, and constantly think that finest which is least Natural.

Content if hence th' unlearn'd their wants may view, The learn'd reflect on what before they knew.