Love turns, with little indulgence, to indifference or disgust: hatred alone is immortal.

Never so sure our rapture to create
As when it touch'd the brink of all we hate.

The dupe of friendship, and the fool of love; have I not reason to hate and to despise myself? Indeed I do; and chiefly for not having hated and despised the world enough.

My only love sprung from my only hate.

In love alone we hate to findCompanions of our woe.

Unless a love of virtue light the flame, Satire is, more than those he brands, to blame; He hides behind a magisterial air He own offences, and strips others' bare.