The finest minds, like the finest metals, dissolve the easiest.
Consult the genius of the place, that paints as you plant, and as you work.
You beat your Pate, and fancy Wit will come: Knock as you please, there's no body at home.
As some to church repair, Not for the doctrine, but the music there. These equal syllables alone require, Though oft the ear the open vowels tire While expletives their feeble aid do join, And ten low words oft creep in one dull line.
Men would be angels, angels would be gods.
Truths would you teach, or save a sinking land? All fear, none aid you, and few understand.