Now warm in love, now with'ring in my bloom Lost in a convent's solitary gloom!
A little learning is a dangerous thing.
But blind to former as to future fate, what mortal knows his pre-existent state?
Why has not Man a microscopic eye? For this plain reason, Man is not a Fly. Say what the use, were finer optics giv'n, T' inspect a mite, not comprehend the heav'n.
How vast a memory has Love!
Men, some to business, some to pleasure take; But every woman is at heart a rake.