O Love! For Sylvia Let

Wise Wretch! With Pleasures Too Refined To Please, With Too Much Spirit To Be E'er At Ease, With Too Much Quickness Ever To Be Taught, With Too Much Thinking To Have Common Thought: You Purchase Pain With All That Joy Can Give, And Die Of Nothing But A Rage To Live.

Vice Is A Monster Of So Frightful Mien As To Be Hated Needs But To Be Seen; Yet Seen Too Oft, Familiar With Her Face, We First Endure, Then Pity, Then Embrace.

No Silver Saints, By Dying Misers Giv'n, Here Brib'd The Rage Of Ill-requited Heav'n; But Such Plain Roofs As Piety Could Raise, And Only Vocal With The Maker's Praise.

Eve Left Adam, To Meet The Devil In Private.

All Looks Yellow To A Jaundiced Eye.