Though with those streams he no resemblance hold, Whose foam is amber and their gravel gold; His genuine and less guilty wealth t' explore, Search not his bottom, but survey his shore.

Whatsoever is worthy of their love is worth their anger.

Uncertain ways unsafest are, and doubt a greater mischief than despair.

Poetry is of so subtle a spirit, that in the pouring out of one language into another it will evaporate.

Youth, what man's age is like to be, doth show; We may our ends by our beginnings know.

You prove but too clearly that seeking to know Is too frequently learning to doubt.

Such is our pride, our folly, or our fate, That few, but such as cannot write, translate.