A man of business may talk of philosophy; a man who has none may practice it.
What woeful stuff this madrigal would be, In some starved hackney sonneteer, or me! But let a lord once own the happy lines, How the wit brightens! how the style refines!
Act well your part, there all the honour lies.
Truth needs not flowers of speech.
While pensive poets painful vigils keep, Sleepless themselves, to give their readers sleep.
Pride, where wit fails, steps in to our defence, and fills up all the mighty void of sense.