Alexander Pope

I
Silence
coeval with Eternity;
Thou wert, ere Nature's-self began to be,'Twas one vast Nothing, all, and all slept fast in thee

Part
ON
That it is as great a fault to judge ill as to write ill, and a more dangerous one to the public
That a true Taste is as rare to be found as a true Genius

Women ben full of Ragerie,
Yet swinken not sans secresie
Thilke Moral shall ye understond,
From Schoole-boy's Tale of fayre Irelond:

Celia, we know, is sixty-five,
Yet Celia's face is seventeen;
Thus winter in her breast must live,
While summer in her face is seen

Dear, damn'd distracting town, farewell
Thy fools no more I'll tease:
This year in peace, ye critics, dwell,
Ye harlots, sleep at ease

Fain would my Muse the flow'ry Treasures sing,
And humble glories of the youthful Spring;
Where opening Roses breathing sweets diffuse,
And soft Carnations show'r their balmy dews;

But our Great Turks in wit must reign
And ill can bear a Brother on the Throne
Wit is like faith by such warm Fools
Who to be saved by one, must damn the rest