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.

Sickness is a sort of early old age it teaches us a diffidence in our earthly state.

Men would be angels Angels would be gods.

The vanity of human life is like a river constantly passing away and yet constantly coming on.

A little learning is a dangerous thing.Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian Spring;There shallow draughts intoxicate the brain,and drinking largely sobers us again.

What so tedious as a twice-told tale?