Fool, Not To Know That

But 'tis The Talent Of Our English Nation, Still To Be Plotting Some New Reformation.

For Thee, Sweet Month; The Groves Green Liveries Wear. If Not The First, The Fairest Of The Year; For Thee The Graces Lead The Dancing Hours, And Nature's Ready Pencil Paints The Flowers. When Thy Short Reign Is Past, The Feverish Sun The Sultry Tropic Fears, And Moves More Slowly On.

Men's Virtues I Have Commended As Freely As I Have Taxed Their Crimes.

Good Sense And Good Nature Are Never Separated; And Good Nature Is The Product Of Right Reason.

Not To Ask Is Not Be Denied.