Those Authors Are To Be

Once A Coxcomb, Always A Coxcomb.

Genius Now And Then Produces A Lucky Trifle. We Still Read The Dove Of Anacreon, And Sparrow Of Catullus; And A Writer Naturally Pleases Himself With A Performance Which Owes Nothing To The Subject.

Enlarge My Life With Multitude Of Days, In Health, In Sickness, Thus The Suppliant Prays; Hides From Himself His State, And Shuns To Know, That Life Protracted Is Protracted Woe. Time Hovers O'er, Impatient To Destroy, And Shuts Up All The Passages Of Joy.

Without Good Humour, Learning And Bravery Can Only Confer That Superiority Which Swells The Heart Of The Lion In The Desert, Where He Roars Without Reply, And Ravages Without Resistance. Without Good Humour Virtue May Awe By Its Dignity And Amaze By Its Brightness, But Must Always Be Viewed At A Distance, And Will Scarcely Gain A Friend Or Attract An Imitator.

Nothing Is More Common Than To Find Men, Whose Works Are Now Totally Neglected, Mentioned With Praises By Their Contemporaries As The Oracles Of Their Age, And The Legislators Of Science.