Born originals, how comes it to pass that we die copies? That meddling ape imitation, as soon as we come to years of indiscretion, (so let me speak,) snatches the pen, and blots out nature's mark of separation, cancels her kind intention, destroys all mental individuality. The lettered world no longer consists of singulars: it is a medley, a mass; and a hundred books, at bottom, are but one.

Satire recoils whenever charged too high; round your own fame the fatal splinters fly.

Life's cares are comforts; such by Heav'n design'd; He that hath none must make them, or be wretched.

Of boasting more than of a bomb afraid, A soldier should be modest as a maid.

Thy purpose firm is equal to the deed: Who does the best his circumstance allows Does well, acts nobly; angels could no more.

Thoughts shut up want air, And spoil, like bales unopen'd to the sun.

A land of levity is a land of guilt.