A fly, a grape-stone, or a hair can kill.
On cold December fragrant chaplets blow, And heavy harvests nod beneath the snow.
What dire offence from am'rous causes springs, What mighty contests rise from trivial things.
How happy is the blameless vestal's lot? The world forgetting, by the world forgot.
The cabinets of the sick and the closets of the dead have been ransacked to publish private letters and divulge to all mankind the most secret sentiments of friendship.
Words are like Leaves; and where they most abound, Much Fruit of Sense beneath is rarely found.