Not Half So Swift The Trembling Doves

Drink Is The Feast Of Reason And The Flow Of Soul.

Whoever Thinks A Faultless Piece To See, Thinks What Ne'er Was, Nor Is, Nor E'er Shall Be, In Every Work Regard The Writer's End, Since None Can Compass More Than They Intend; And If The Means Be Just, The Conduct True, Applause, In Spite Of Trivial Faults, Is Due.

Some To Conceit Alone Their Taste Confine, And Glittering Thoughts Struck Out At Ev'ry Line; Pleas'd With A Work Where Nothing's Just Or Fit; One Glaring Chaos And Wild Heap Of Wit.

Hills Peep O'er Hills, And Alps On Alps Arise.

Luxurious Lobster-nights, Farewell, For Sober, Studious Days!