The course of Nature is the art of God
Thoughts shut up want air, And spoil, like bales unopen'd to the sun.
Poor in abundance, famish'd at a feast.
Sense is our helmet, wit is but the plume; The plume exposes, 'tis our helmet saves. Sense is the diamond, weighty, solid, sound; When cut by wit, it casts a brighter beam; Yet, wit apart, it is a diamond still.
[The] public path of life Is dirty.
Fame is the shade of immortality, And in itself a shadow. Soon as caught, Contemn'd; it shrinks to nothing in the grasp.