There is no study that is not capable of delighting us after a little application to it.

Why did I write? What sin to me unknown dipped me in ink, my parents , or my own?

Thus let me live, unseen, unknown, Thus unlamented let me die, Steal from the world, and not a stone Tell where I lie.

Avoid Extremes; and shun the fault of such Who still are pleas'd too little or too much.

The grave unites; where e'en the great find rest, And blended lie th' oppressor and th' oppressed!

See skulking Truth to her old cavern fled, Mountains of Casuistry heap'd o'er her head! Philosophy, that lean'd on Heav'n before, Shrinks to her second cause, and is no more. Physic of Metaphysic begs defence, And Metaphysic calls for aid on Sense! See Mystery to Mathematics fly!

Whoever thinks a faultless piece to see, Thinks what ne'er was, nor is, nor e'er shall be, In every work regard the writer's end, Since none can compass more than they intend; And if the means be just, the conduct true, Applause, in spite of trivial faults, is due.