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.

And seem to walk on wings, and tread in air.

Some judge of authors' names, not works, and then Nor praise nor blame the writings, but the men.

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.

Where'er you walk cool gales shall fan the glade, Trees where you sit shall crowd into a shade. Where'er you tread the blushing flowers shall rise, And all things flourish where you turn your eyes.

Astrologers that future fates foreshow.

A little learning is a dangerous thing; Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian spring.