Why Did I Write? Whose Sin To

Plays Round The Head, But Comes Not To The Heart. One Self-approving Hour Whole Years Outweighs Of Stupid Starers And Of Loud Huzzas; And More True Joy Marcellus Exil'd Feels Than Cæsar With A Senate At His Heels. In Parts Superior What Advantage Lies? Tell (for You Can) What Is It To Be Wise? 't Is But To Know How Little Can Be Known; To See All Others' Faults, And Feel Our Own.

The Sound Must Seem An Echo To The Sense.

Say First, Of God Above Or Man Below; What Can We Reason But From What We Know.

Oh, Blindness To The Future! Kindly Giv'n, That Each May Fill The Circle Mark'd By Heaven.

A Fly, A Grape-stone, Or A Hair Can Kill.