Vices and virtues are of a strange nature, for the more we have, the fewer we think we have

Vice is a monster of so frightful mien, As to be hated needs but to be seen Yet seen too oft, familiar with her face, we first endure, then pity, then embrace

Coffee which makes the politician wise, and see through all things with his half-shut eyes

Such were the notes thy once loved poet sung, Till death untimely stopped his tuneful tongue

While pensive poets painful vigils keep - Sleepless themselves to give their readers sleep

Means not, but blunders round about a meaning; And he whose fustian's so sublimely bad, It is not poetry, but prose run mad

At every trifle take offence, that always shows great pride or little sense

At every trifle, scorn to take offence; that always shows great pride, or little sense

Who combats bravely is not therefore brave, He dreads a death-bed like the meanest slave Who reasons wisely is not therefore wise, - His pride in reasoning, not in acting lies

Pride is still aiming at the best houses: Men would be angels, angels would be gods. Aspiring to be gods, if angels fell; aspiring to be angels men rebel