The parson knows enough who knows a Duke.
Solitude, seeming a sanctuary, proves a grave; a sepulchre in which the living lie, where all good qualities grow sick and die
All truth is precious, if not all divine; and what dilates the powers must needs refine.
To follow foolish precedents, and wink With both our eyes, is easier than to think.
Made poetry a mere mechanic art.
... she, that will with kittens jest, Should bear a kitten's joke.