Dear fatal name! rest ever unreveal'd, Nor pass these lips in holy silence seal'd. Hide it, my heart, within that close disguise, Where mixed with Gods, his lov'd idea lies: O write it not, my hand - the name appears Already written - wash it out, my tears! In vain lost Eloisa weeps and prays, Her heart still dictates, and her hand obeyes.

Thus God and nature linked the gen'ral frame, And bade self-love and social be the same.

The world is a thing we must of necessity either laugh at or be angry at; if we laugh at it, they say we are proud; if we are angry at it, they say we are ill-natured.

Is pride, the never-failing vice of fools.

The race by vigour, not by vaunts, is won.

A fellow feeling makes us wondrous kind.

Homer excels all the inventors of other arts in this: that he has swallowed up the honor of those who succeeded him.