Rogues in rags are kept in countenance by rogues in ruffles.
Wholesome solitude, the nurse of sense!
No craving void left aching in the soul.
Where beams of imagination play, the memory's soft figures melt away.
Here thou, great Anna! Whom three realms obey, / Dost sometimes counsel take—and sometimes tea.
The race by vigour, not by vaunts, is won.