Good Sense, Which Only Is The Gift

Thus Unlamented Pass The Proud Away, The Gaze Of Fools And Pageant Of A Day; So Perish All, Whose Breast Ne'er Learn'd To Glow For Others' Good, Or Melt At Others' Woe.

You Beat Your Pate, And Fancy Wit Will Come: Knock As You Please, There's No Body At Home.

What Woeful Stuff This Madrigal Would Be, In Some Starved Hackney Sonneteer, Or Me! But Let A Lord Once Own The Happy Lines, How The Wit Brightens! How The Style Refines!

Bear, Like The Turk, No Brother Near The Throne.

Ladies, Like Variegated Tulips, Show 'tis To Their Changes Half Their Charms We Owe.