Patience is sorrow's salve.
Those who would make us feel must feel themselves.
Though by whim, envy, or resentment led, they damn those authors whom they never read.
With various readings stored his empty skull, Learn'd without sense, and venerably dull.
Who often, but without success, have prayed for apt Alliteration's artful aid.
With curious art the brain, too finely wrought, Preys on herself, and is destroyed by thought.