“Of those few fools, who with ill stars are curst,Sure scribbling fools, called poets, fare the worst:For they're a sort of fools which fortune makes,And, after she has made them fools, forsakes.With Nature's oafs 'tis quite a different case,For Fortune favours all her idiot race.In her own nest the cuckoo eggs we find,Over which she broods to hatch the changeling kind:No portion for her own she has to spare,So much she dotes on her adopted care.Poets are bubbles, by the town drawn in,Suffered at first some trifling stakes to win:But what unequal hazards do they run!Each time they write they venture all they've won:The Squire that's buttered still, is sure to be undone.This author, heretofore, has found your favour,But pleads no merit from his past behaviour.To build on that might prove a vain presumption,Should grant to poets made admit resumption,And in Parnassus he must lose his seat,If that be found a forfeited estate.”

“She could not bear the thought. She simply could not bear the thought that she might somehow prove to her grandfather that her mother had indeed been a fool and her father had been a damned fool and that she was the damnedest fool of them all.”

“She dreams of him that has forgot her love;You dote on her that cares not for your love.'Tis pity love should be so contrary;And thinking of it makes me cry 'alas!”

“She likes herself, yet others hates / For that which in herself she prizes; And, while she laughs at them, forgets / She is the thing that she despises.”

“Fortune makes a fool of those she favors too much.”

“Blake waited until she set her deep gray eyes on him. “He has no idea the beauty in front of him. He’s a fool.”His words made her heart glow. She smiled and looked at her hands.”

“She was a fool and he knew it and because he loved her it had made no difference.”