Whether the charmer sinner it, or saint it, If folly grow romantic, I must paint it.
A saint in crape is twice a saint in lawn.
No silver saints, by dying misers giv'n, Here brib'd the rage of ill-requited heav'n; But such plain roofs as Piety could raise, And only vocal with the Maker's praise.
For virtue's self may too much zeal be had; the worst of madmen is a saint run mad.