Who builds a church to God and not to fame, Will never mark the marble with his name.

Nor public flame, nor private, dares to shine; Nor human spark is left, nor glimpse divine! Lo! thy dread empire, Chaos! is restored; Light dies before thy uncreating word: Thy hand, great Anarch! lets the curtain fall; And universal darkness buries all.

Fools admire, but men of sense approve.

Conceit is to nature what paint is to beauty; it is not only needless, but it impairs what it would improve.

That each from other differs, first confess; next that he varies from himself no less.

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.

Oh! be thou blest with all that Heaven can send, Long health, long youth, long pleasure-and a friend.