Pleas'd look forward, pleas'd to look behind,And count each birthday with a grateful mind.

Extremes in nature equal ends produce; In man they join to some mysterious use.

Those oft are stratagems which errors seem Nor is it Homer nods, but we that dream.

Some judge of authors' names, not works, and then Nor praise nor blame the writings, but the men.

Great oaks grow from little acorns. He has a green thumb. He has green fingers. He's sowing his wild oats. Here Ceres' gifts in waving prospect stand, And nodding tempt the joyful reaper's hand.

Behold the groves that shine with silver frost, their beauty withered, and their verdure lost!

To endeavor to work upon the vulgar with fine sense is like attempting to hew blocks with a razor.