God Never Made His Work

The Unhappy Man, Who Once Has Trail'd A Pen, Lives Not To Please Himself, But Other Men; Is Always Drudging, Wastes His Life And Blood, Yet Only Eats And Drinks What You Think Good.

For Art May Err, But Nature Cannot Miss.

He Is A Perpetual Fountain Of Good Sense.

Words Are But Pictures Of Our Thoughts.

Who Climbs The Grammar-tree, Distinctly Knows Where Noun, And Verb, And Participle Grows.