Never Find Fault With The Absent.

What Is It To Be Wise? 'tis But To Know How Little Can Be Known, To See All Others' Faults, And Feel Our Own.

With Sharpen'd Sight Pale Antiquaries Pore, Th' Inscription Value, But The Rust Adore. This The Blue Varnish, That The Green Endears; The Sacred Rust Of Twice Ten Hundred Years.

And More Than Echoes Talk Along The Walls.

Praise From A Friend, Or Censure From A Foe, Are Lost On Hearers That Our Merits Know.

A Brain Of Feathers, And A Heart Of Lead.