Wise wretch! with pleasures too refined to please, With too much spirit to be e'er at ease, With too much quickness ever to be taught, With too much thinking to have common thought: You purchase pain with all that joy can give, And die of nothing but a rage to live.

Nay, fly to altars; there they'll talk you dead; For fools rush in where angels fear to tread.

The only time you run out of chances is when you stop taking them

The bookful blockhead ignorantly read, With loads of learned lumber in his head, With his own tongue still edifies his ears, And always list'ning to himself appears. All books he reads, and all he reads assails.

Choose a firm cloud before it fall, and in it Catch, ere she change, the Cynthia of this minute.

Our rural ancestors, with little blest, Patient of labor when the end was rest, Indulged the day that housed their annual grain, With feasts, and off'rings, and a thankful strain.

What will a child learn sooner than a song?