Is there a tongue like Delia's o'er her cup, That runs for ages without winding up?

He who has little silver in his pouch must have the more silk on his tongue

Men may live fools, but fools they cannot die.

Some for renown, on scraps of learning dote, And think they grow immortal as they quote.

For her own breakfast she'll project a scheme,
Nor take her tea without a strategem.

Reason is progressive; instinct is complete; swift instinct leaps; slow reason feebly climbs.