Love Is Not In Our Choice But

Let Those Find Fault Whose Wit's So Very Small, They've Need To Show That They Can Think At All; Errors, Like Straws, Upon The Surface Flow; He Who Would Search For Pearls, Must Dive Below. Fops May Have Leave To Level All They Can; As Pigmies Would Be Glad To Lop A Man. Half-wits Are Fleas; So Little And So Light, We Scarce Could Know They Live, But That They Bite.

When Bounteous Autumn Rears Her Head, He Joys To Pull The Ripened Pear.

The Soft Complaining Flute, In Dying Notes, Discovers The Woes Of Hopeless Lovers.

The Fates But Only Spin The Coarser Clue; The Finest Of The Wool Is Left For You.

Either Be Wholly Slaves Or Wholly Free.