Nor Waste Their Sweetness In The Desert

Truth! Why Shall Every Wretch Of Letters Dare To Speak Truth Against His Betters! Let Ragged Virtue Stand Aloof, Nor Mutter Accents Of Reproof; Let Ragged Wit A Mute Become, When Wealth And Power Would Have Her Dumb.

A Servile Race Who, In Mere Want Of Fault, All Merit Place; Who Blind Obedience Pay To Ancient Schools, Bigots To Greece, And Slaves To Musty Rules.

Little Do Such Men Know The Toil, The Pains, The Daily, Nightly Racking Of The Brains, To Range The Thoughts, The Matter To Digest, To Cull Fit Phrases, And Reject The Rest.

The Laws I Love; The Lawyers I Suspect.

The Surest Way To Health, Say What They Will, Is Never To Suppose We Shall Be Ill; Most Of The Ills Which We Poor Mortals Know From Doctors And Imagination Flow.