“True ease in writing comes from art, not chance,As those move easiest who have learn'd to dance.”

“All Nature is but art, unknown to theeAll chance, direction, which thou canst not see;All discord, harmony not understood; All partial evil, universal good.”

“Oh! if to dance all night, and dress all day,Charm'd the small-pox, or chased old age away;Who would not scorn what housewife's cares produce,Or who would learn one earthly thing of use?”

“Wise wretch! with pleasures too refined to please,With too much spirit to be e'er at ease,With too much quickness ever to be taught,With too much thinking to have common thought:You purchase pain with all that joy can give,And die of nothing but a rage to live.”

“No, fly me, fly me, far as pole from pole;Rise Alps between us! and whole oceans roll!Ah, come not, write not, think not once of me,Nor share one pang of all I felt for thee. Thy oaths I quit, thy memory resign; Forget, renounce me, hate whate'er was mine. Fair eyes, and tempting looks (which yet I view!) Long lov'd, ador'd ideas, all adieu!”

“Then most our trouble still when most admired,And still the more we give, the more required;Whose fame with pains we guard, but lose with ease,Sure some to vex, but never all to please.”

“Yet graceful ease, and sweetness void of pride,Might hide her faults, if belles had faults to hide:If to her share some female errors fall,Look on her face, and you'll forget 'em all.”