Oft, as in airy rings they skim the heath, The clamtrous lapwings feel the leaden death; Oft, as the mounting larks their notes prepare They fall, and leave their little lives in air.

The lights and shades, whose well-accorded strife gives all the strength and color of our life.

A field of glory is a field for all.

These riches are possess'd, but not enjoy'd!

An honest man's the noblest work of God.

From vulgar bounds with brave disorder part, And snatch a grace beyond the reach of art.

And empty heads console with empty sound.