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.

Of Manners gentle, of Affections mild; In Wit a man; Simplicity, a child.

New, distant Scenes of endless Science rise: So pleas'd at first, the towring Alps we try.

Wit in conversation is only a readiness of thought and a facility of expression, or a quick conception and an easy delivery.

At ev'ry word a reputation dies.

The young disease, that must subdue at length, Grows with his growth, and strengthens with his strength.

Fear not the anger of the wise to raise; Those best can bear reproof who merit praise.