Fashion–a word which knaves and fools may use, Their knavery and folly to excuse.
England a fortune-telling host, As num’rous as the stars, could boast; Matrons, who toss the cup, and see The grounds of Fate in grounds of tea.
Old Age, a second child, by nature curstWith more and greater evils than the first,Weak, sickly, full of pains: in ev’ry breathRailing at life, and yet afraid of death.
Ourselves are to ourselves the cause of ill.
What is this world?–A term which men have got,To signify not one in ten knows what;A term, which with no more precision passesTo point out herds of men than herds of asses;In common use no more it means, we find,Than many fools in same opinions joined.
With that malignant envy which turns pale, And sickens, even if a friend prevail.
Weak is that throne, and in itself unsound,Which takes not solid virtue for its ground.
There’s a strange something, which without a brainFools feel, and which e’en wise men can’t explain,Planted in man, to bind him to that earth,In dearest ties, from whence he drew his birth.
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.
Amongst the sons of men how few are known Who dare be just to merit not their own.
Men the most infamous are fond of fame, And those who fear not guilt yet start at shame.
Gipsies, who every ill can cure,Except the ill of being poorWho charms ‘gainst love and agues sell,Who can in hen-roost set a spell,Prepar’d by arts, to them best knownTo catch all feet except their own,Who, as to fortune, can unlock it,As easily as pick a pocket.