Folly Ends Where Genuine Hope Begins.

Detested Sport, That Owes Its Pleasures To Another's Pain.

Admirals Extolled For Standing Still, Or Doing Nothing With A Deal Of Skill.

Mountains Interposed Make Enemies Of Nations, Who Had Else Like Kindred Drops Been Mingled Into One.

He That Runs May Read.

I Was A Poet Too; But Modern Taste Is So Refined And Delicate And Chaste, That Verse, Whatever Fire The Fancy Warms, Without A Creamy Smoothness Has No Charms. Thus, All Success Depending On An Ear, And Thinking I Might Purchase It Too Dear, If Sentiment Were Sacrific'd To Sound, And Truth Cut Short To Make A Period Round, I Judg'd A Man Of Sense Could Scarce Do Worse Than Caper In The Morris-dance Of Verse.