Authors are partial to their wit, 'tis true, But are not critics to their judgment, too?

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.

Chiefs who no more in bloody fights engage, But wise through time, and narrative with age, In summer-days like grasshoppers rejoice - A bloodless race, that send a feeble voice.

Is that a birthday? 'tis, alas! too clear; 'Tis but the funeral of the former year.

Virtue alone is happiness below.

Thou wert my guide, philosopher, and friend.

The search of our future being is but a needless, anxious, and haste to be knowing, sooner than we can, what, without all this solicitude, we shall know a little later.