Never was patriot yet, but was a fool.

For Art may err, but Nature cannot miss.

None are so busy as the fool and the knave.

The blushing beauties of a modest maid.

Beauty, like ice, our footing does betray; Who can tread sure on the smooth, slippery way: Pleased with the surface, we glide swiftly on, And see the dangers that we cannot shun.

Men are but children of a larger growth.

Whatever is, is in its causes just.