Imitators Are But A Servile Kind Of

All Objects Lose By Too Familiar A View.

To Die Is Landing On Some Distant Shore.

Tis Fate That Flings The Dice, And As She Flings Of Kings Makes Peasants, And Of Peasants Kings.

He Is The Very Janus Of Poets; He Wears Almost Everywhere Two Faces; And You Have Scarce Begun To Admire The One, Ere You Despise The Other.

Luxurious Kings Are To Their People Lost, They Live Like Drones, Upon The Public Cost.