“You'll grow devilish fat upon this paper-diet!”

“Thus in this sad, but oh, too pleasing state! my soul can fix upon nothing but thee; thee it contemplates, admires, adores, nay depends on, trusts on you alone.”

“Music hath charms to sooth a savage breast.”

“Heav'n hath no Rage, like Love to Hatred turn'd,Nor Hell a Fury, like a Woman scorn'd.”

“A little scorn is alluring. ”

“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.”

“I came up stairs into the world, for I was born in a cellar.”