Conceit is to nature what paint is to beauty; it is not only needless, but impairs what it would improve
But blind to former as to future fate, What mortal knows his pre-existent state?
'Tis not enough your counsel still be true; Blunt truths more mischief than nice falsehoods do.
But honest instinct comes a volunteer; Sure never to o'er-shoot, but just to hit, While still too wide or short in human wit.
Love, free as air at sight of human ties, Spreads his light wings, and in a moment flies.
Slave to no sect, who takes no private road, But looks through Nature up to Nature's God.
To observations which ourselves we make, we grow more partial for th' observer's sake.
You purchase pain with all that joy can give, and die of nothing but a rage to live.
It is with narrow-souled people as with narrow-necked bottles: the less they have in them the more noise they make in pouring it out.
In words, as fashions, the same rule will hold; Alike fantastic, if too new, or old: Be not the first by whom the new are tried, Nor yet the last to lay the old aside.