The Zeal Of Fools Offends At Any

So Vast Is Art, So Narrow Human Wit.

Reason, However Able, Cool At Best, Cares Not For Service, Or But Serves When Prest, Stays Till We Call, And Then Not Often Near.

To Happy Convents, Bosomed Deep In Vines, Where Slumber Abbots, Purple As Their Wines.

Fools Rush In Where Angels Fear To Tread.

But If You'll Prosper, Mark What I Advise, Whom Age, And Long Experience Render Wise.