Praise from a friend, or censure from a foe, Are lost on hearers that our merits know.
So vast is art, so narrow human wit.
O peace! how many wars were waged in thy name.
Nay, fly to altars; there they'll talk you dead; For fools rush in where angels fear to tread.
Is not absence death to those who love?
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.