Though triumphs were to generals only due, crowns were reserved to grace the soldiers too.

Happy the man whose wish and care a few paternal acres bound, content to breathe his native air in his own ground.

Is there a parson much bemused in beer, a maudlin poetess, a rhyming peer, a clerk foredoom'd his father's soul to cross, who pens a stanza when he should engross?

Religion blushing, veils her sacred fires, And unawares Morality expires.

Never find fault with the absent.

All chance, direction, which thou canst not see

Who shall decide when doctors disagree, And soundest casuists doubt, like you and me?