Like Pilgrims To Th' Appointed Place We

But How Can Finite Grasp Infinity?

Present Joys Are More To Flesh And Blood Than A Dull Prospect Of A Distant Good.

For Those Whom God To Ruin Has Design'd, He Fits For Fate, And First Destroys Their Mind.

Mere Poets Are Sottish As Mere Drunkards Are, Who Live In A Continual Mist, Without Seeing Or Judging Anything Clearly. A Man Should Be Learned In Several Sciences, And Should Have A Reasonable, Philosophical And In Some Measure A Mathematical Head, To Be A Complete And Excellent Poet.

He Who Trusts Secrets To A Servant Makes Him His Master