If, presume not to God to scan; The proper study of Mankind is Man. Plac’d on this isthmus of a middle state, a being darkly wise, and rudely great.
And seem to walk on wings, and tread in air.
A brave man struggling in the storms of fate, And greatly falling with a falling state.
Who combats bravely is not therefore brave, He dreads a death-bed like the meanest slave: Who reasons wisely is not therefore wise,- His pride in reasoning, not in acting lies.
See! From the brake the whirring pheasant springs, And mounts exulting on triumphant wings; Short is his joy! He feels the fiery wound, Flutters in blood, and panting beats the ground.
From Nature’s chain whatever link you strike, Tenth or ten thousandth, breaks the chain alike.
Who dare to love their country, and be poor.
Truths would you teach, or save a sinking land? All fear, none aid you, and few understand.
As with narrow-necked bottles; the less they have in them, the more noise they make in pouring out.
From vulgar bounds with brave disorder part, And snatch a grace beyond the reach of art.
Die of a rose in aromatic pain.
Bear, like the Turk, no brother near the throne.
Virtue alone is happiness below.
How shall I lose the sin, yet keep the sense, and love the offender, yet detest the offence?
Passions are the gales of life.
Whenever I find a great deal of gratitude in a poor man, I take it for granted there would be as much generosity if he were a rich man.
Nor Fame I slight, nor for her favors call; She comes unlooked for, if she comes at all .
Careless of censure, nor too fond of fame, Still pleased to praise, yet not afraid to blame, Averse alike to flatter or offend, Not free from faults, nor yet too vain to mend.
Who builds a church to God and not to fame, Will never mark the marble with his name.
Why did I write? whose sin to me unknown Dipt me in ink, my parents’, or my own? As yet a child, nor yet a fool to fame, I lisp’d in numbers, for the numbers came.