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.
But fate ordains that dearest friends must part.
Of man's miraculous mistakes, this bears The palm, "That all men are about to live."
Pity swells the tide of love.
Heaven wills our happiness, allows our doom.
As in smooth oil the razor best is whet, So wit is by politeness sharpest set; Their want of edge from their offence is seen, Both pain us least when exquisitely keen.