Sleep And Death, Two Twins Of Winged

Fortune In Men Has Some Small Diff'rence Made, One Flaunts In Rags, One Flutters In Brocade, The Cobbler Apron'd, And The Parson Gown'd, The Friar Hooded, And The Monarch Crown'd.

To Swear Is Neither Brave, Polite, Nor Wise.

A Little Learning Is A Dangerous Thing; Drink Deep, Or Taste Not The Pierian Spring.

The Lamb Thy Riot Dooms To Bleed Today, Had He Thy Reason, Would He Skip And Play? Pleas'd To The Last He Crops The Flow'ry Food, And Licks The Hand Just Rais'd To Shed His Blood.

Whate'er The Talents, Or Howe'er Designed, We Hang One Jingling Padlock On The Mind.