I'm the fool that rushes in where angels fear to tread.

Name a new Play, and he's the Poet's Friend,

Nay show'd his Faults--but when wou'd Poets mend?

No Place so Sacred from such Fops is barr'd,

Nor is Paul's Church more safe than Paul's Church-yard:

Nay, fly to Altars; there they'll talk you dead;

For Fools rush in where Angels fear to tread.

Distrustful Sense with modest Caution speaks;

It still looks home, and short Excursions makes;

But ratling Nonsense in full Vollies breaks;

And never shock'd, and never turn'd aside,

Bursts out, resistless, with a thundering Tyde!

~Alexander Pope~

Tis newest development is probably good. Tis maybe Caution speaking, and tis time to take heed of Sense.

After all, where has past development taken me? Weary, frightened, ignored and lonely isn't a desirable place to be.