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Learning itself, received into a mind By nature weak, or viciously inclined, Serves but to lead philosophers astray, Where children would with ease discern the way.
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Friends, books, a garden, and perhaps his pen, Delightful industry enjoy'd at home, An Nature, in her cultivated trim Dress'ed to his taste, inviting him abroad - Can he want occupation who has these?
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How much a dunce that has been sent to roam, excels a dunce that has been kept at home.
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Transforms old print To zigzag manuscript, and cheats the eyes Of gallery critics by a thousand arts.
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It is a general rule of Judgment, that a mischief should rather be admitted than an inconvenience.
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Blest be the art that can immortalize,--the art that baffles time's tyrannic claim to quench it.
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Religion, if in heavenly truths attired, Needs only to be seen to be admired.
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Did Charity prevail, the press would prove A vehicle of virtue, truth, and love.
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Made poetry a mere mechanic art.
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The slaves of custom and established mode, With pack-horse constancy we keep the road Crooked or straight, through quags or thorny dells, True to the jingling of our leader's bells.
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He that negotiates between God and man, As God's ambassador, the grand concerns Of judgment and of mercy, should beware Of lightness in his speech.
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Satan trembles when he sees the weakest saint upon their knees.
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Grief is itself a medicine.
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Existence is a strange bargain. Life owes us little; we owe it everything. The only true happiness comes from squandering ourselves for a purpose.
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Call'd to the temple of impure delight He that abstains, and he alone, does right. If a wish wander that way, call it home; He cannot long be safe whose wishes roam.
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No traveler e'er reached that blest abode who found not thorns and briers in his road.
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There goes the parson, oh illustrious spark! And there, scarce less illustrious, goes the clerk.
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Could he with reason murmur at his case, Himself sole author of his own disgrace?
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Admirals extolled for standing still, or doing nothing with a deal of skill.
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[My kitten's] gambols are not to be described, and would be incredible, if they could.
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Knowledge and wisdom, far from being one, Have oft-times no connection. Knowledge dwells In heads replete with thoughts of other men; Wisdom in minds attentive to their own.
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Lived in his saddle, loved the chase, the course, And always, ere he mounted, kiss'd his horse.
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They love the country, and none else, who seek For their own sake its silence and its shade. Delights which who would leave, that has a heart Susceptible of pity, or a mind Cultured and capable of sober thought.
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But conversation, choose what theme we may, And chiefly when religion leads the way, Should flow, like waters after summer show'rs, Not as if raised by mere mechanic powers.