“Words are like Leaves; and where they most abound,
Much Fruit of Sense beneath is rarely found.”
More from Alexander Pope
“Our rural ancestors, with little blest, Patient of labor when the end was rest, Indulged…”
“Yet graceful ease, and sweetness void of pride, Might hide her faults, if belles had…”
“Dear fatal name! rest ever unreveal'd, Nor pass these lips in holy silence seal'd. Hide…”
“All forms that perish other forms supply, (By turns we catch the vital breath and die)…”