The bookful blockhead ignorantly read, With loads of learned lumber in his head, With his own tongue still edifies his ears, And always list'ning to himself appears. All books he reads, and all he reads assails.

From vulgar bounds with brave disorder part, And snatch a grace beyond the reach of art.

The zeal of fools offends at any time.

Fame, wealth, and honour! what are you to Love?

Our passions are like convulsion fits, which, though they make us stronger for a time, leave us the weaker ever after.

Where's the man who counsel can bestow, still pleased to teach, and yet not proud to know.

Words are like Leaves; and where they most abound, Much Fruit of Sense beneath is rarely found.