For what I have publish'd, I can only hope to be pardon'd; but for what I have burned, I deserve to be prais'd.

Know, Nature's children all divide her care, The fur that warms a monarch warmed a bear.

Whoe'er he be That tells my faults, I hate him mortally.

Get your enemy to read your works in order to mend them, for your friend is so much your second self that he will judge too like you.

No Senses stronger than his brain can bear. Why has not Man a microscopic eye? For this plain reason, Man is not a Fly: What the advantage, if his finer eyes Study a Mite, not comprehend the Skies?... Or quick Effluvia darting thro' his brain, Die of a Rose, in Aromatic pain? If Nature thunder'd in his opening ears, And stunn'd him with the music of the Spheres... Who finds not Providence all-good and wise, Alike in what it gives, and what denies?

Happy the man whose wish and care a few paternal acres bound, content to breathe his native air in his own ground.

Plays round the head, but comes not to the heart. One self-approving hour whole years outweighs Of stupid starers and of loud huzzas; And more true joy Marcellus exil'd feels Than Cæsar with a senate at his heels. In parts superior what advantage lies? Tell (for you can) what is it to be wise? 'T is but to know how little can be known; To see all others' faults, and feel our own.