Poets lose half the praise they should have got, Could it be known what they discreetly blot.
The lark that shuns on lofty boughs to build, Her humble nest, lies silent in the field.
Virtue's a stronger guard than brass.
Poets that lasting marble seek, Must come in Latin or in Greek.
Give us enough but with a sparing hand.
But virtue too, as well as vice, is clad in flesh and blood.