But Just Disease To Luxury Succeeds, And

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

No Silver Saints, By Dying Misers Giv'n, Here Brib'd The Rage Of Ill-requited Heav'n; But Such Plain Roofs As Piety Could Raise, And Only Vocal With The Maker's Praise.

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

Pretty Conceptions, Fine Metaphors, Glittering Expressions, And Something Of A Neat Cast Of Verse Are Properly The Dress, Gems, Or Loose Ornaments Of Poetry.

Sometimes Virtue Starves While Vice Is Fed.