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Who ne'er knew joy but friendship might divide, Or gave his father grief but when he died.
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Some old men, by continually praising the time of their youth, would almost persuade us that there were no fools in those days; but unluckily they are left themselves for examples.
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A man should never be ashamed to own he has been in the wrong, which is but saying, in other words, that he is wiser today than he was yesterday.
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Here hills and vales, the woodland and the plain, Here earth and water seem to strive again, Not chaos-like together crushed and bruised, But, as the world, harmoniously confused: Where order in variety we see, And where, though all things differ, all agree.
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To err is human, to forgive divine.
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I would not be like those Authors, who forgive themselves some particular lines for the sake of a whole Poem, and vice versa a whole Poem for the sake of some particular lines. I believe no one qualification is so likely to make a good writer, as the power of rejecting his own thoughts.
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And bear about the mockery of woe To midnight dances and the public show.
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Dear, damned, distracting town, farewell! Thy fools no more I'll tease: This year in peace, ye critics, dwell, Ye harlots, sleep at ease!
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The most positive men are the most credulous…
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The mouse that always trusts to one poor hole Can never be a mouse of any soul.
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To wake the soul by tender strokes of art, To raise the genius, and to mend the heart; To make mankind, in conscious virtue bold, Live o'er each scene, and be what they behold: For this the Tragic Muse first trod the stage.
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So unaffected, so compos'd a mind; So firm, yet soft; so strong, yet so retin'd; Heav'n, as its purest gold, by tortures try'd; The saint sustain'd it, but the woman died.