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.

The light of Heaven restore; Give me to see, and Ajax asks no more.

Did some more sober critics come abroad? If wrong, I smil'd; if right, I kiss'd the rod.

But blind to former as to future fate, what mortal knows his pre-existent state?

Never find fault with the absent.

Devotion's self shall steal a thought from heaven.

Talk what you will of taste, my friend, you'll find two of a face as soon as of a mind.