So must the writer, whose productions should Take with the vulgar, be of vulgar mould.

And as pale sickness does invade, Your frailer part, the breaches made, In that fair lodging still more clear, Make the bright guest, your soul, appear.

All human things Of dearest value hang on slender strings.

Could we forbear dispute, and practise love, We should agree as angels do above.

Go, lovely rose! Tell her that wastes her time and me That now she knows, When I resemble her to thee, How sweet and fair she seems to be.

His love at once and dread instruct our thought; As man He suffer'd and as God He taught.

How small a part of time they share, That are so wondrous sweet and fair!

Leaving the old, both worlds at once they view, That stand upon the threshold of the new.

Vexed sailors cursed the rain, for which poor shepherds prayed in vain.

Others may use the ocean as their road; Only the English make it their abode.

Poets lose half the praise they should have got, Could it be known what they discreetly blot.

Poets that lasting marble seek Must come in Latin or in Greek.

The seas are quiet when the winds give o'er; So calm are we when passions are no more!

A narrow compass! and yet there Dwelt all that 's good, and all that 's fair; Give me but what this riband bound, Take all the rest the sun goes round.

To love is to believe, to hope, to know; Tis an essay, a taste of Heaven below!