Then, at the last and only couplet fraught With some unmeaning thing they call a thought, A needless Alexandrine ends the song, That, like a wounded snake, drags its slow length along.

A wit with dunces, and a dunce with wits.

Absent or dead, still let a friend be dear.

To err is human; to forgive, divine.

All looks yellow to a jaundiced eye.

I as little fear that God will damn a man that has charity, as I hope that the priests can save one who has not.

Tis true, 'tis certain; man, though dead, retains Part of himself; the immortal mind remains.