Is that a birthday? 'tis, alas! too clear; 'Tis but the funeral of the former year.
Who builds a church to God and not to fame, Will never mark the marble with his name.
Is it, in heav'n, a crime to love too well?
A perfect woman's but a softer man.
Men must be taught as if you taught them not, and things unknown proposed as things forgot.
Speed the soft intercourse from soul to soul, And waft a sigh from Indus to the Pole.