To copy faults is want of sense.
The proud will sooner lose than ask their way.
The more haste, ever the worst speed.
Amongst the sons of men how few are known Who dare be just to merit not their own.
Knaves starve not in the land of fools.
Constant attention wears the active mind, Blots out our pow’rs, and leaves a blank behind.
The oak, when living, monarch of the wood; The English oak, which, dead, commands the flood.
Who all in raptures their own works rehearse, And drawl out measur’d prose, which they call verse.
The rigid saint, by whom no mercy’s shown To saints whose lives are better than his own.
And reputation bleeds in ev’ry word.
Fool beckons fool, and dunce awakens dunce.
Fashion – a word which knaves and fools may use, Their knavery and folly to excuse.
It can’t be Nature, for it is not sense.
The best things carried to excess are wrong.
The danger chiefly lies in acting well; no crime’s so great as daring to excel.
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.
A servile race Who, in mere want of fault, all merit place; Who blind obedience pay to ancient schools, Bigots to Greece, and slaves to musty rules.
Who shall dispute what the Reviewers say? Their word’s sufficient; and to ask a reason, In such a state as theirs, is downright treason.
With that malignant envy which turns pale, And sickens, even if a friend prevail.
Those who raise envy will easily incur censure.
A joke’s a very serious thing.