Genius is nothing more than inflamed enthusiasm.
With various readings stored his empty skull, Learn'd without sense, and venerably dull.
To copy beauty forfeits all pretense to fame; to copy faults is want of sense
Ourselves are to ourselves the cause of ill.
Who often, but without success, have prayed for apt Alliteration's artful aid.
England a fortune-telling host, As num'rous as the stars, could boast; Matrons, who toss the cup, and see The grounds of Fate in grounds of tea.