On The Four Aces Doom'd To Roll.

It Can't Be Nature, For It Is Not Sense.

To Copy Faults Is Want Of Sense.

Nature, Through All Her Works, In Great Degree, Borrows A Blessing From Variety. Music Itself Her Needful Aid Requires To Rouse The Soul, And Wake Our Dying Fires.

Ourselves Are To Ourselves The Cause Of Ill.

The Best Things Carried To Excess Are Wrong.