The sound must seem an echo to the sense.
The dull flat falsehood serves for policy, and in the cunning, truth's itself a lie.
Gentle dullness ever loves a joke.
Wise wretch! with pleasures too refined to please, With too much spirit to be e'er at ease, With too much quickness ever to be taught, With too much thinking to have common thought: You purchase pain with all that joy can give, And die of nothing but a rage to live.
Our business in the field of fight, Is not to question, but to prove our might.
Now warm in love, now with'ring in my bloom Lost in a convent's solitary gloom!