Fondly we think we honor merit then, when we but praise ourselves in other men.

Thus God and nature linked the gen'ral frame, And bade self-love and social be the same.

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

Die of a rose in aromatic pain.

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

For what I have publish'd, I can only hope to be pardon'd; but for what I have burned, I deserve to be prais'd.

A king may be a tool, a thing of straw; but if he serves to frighten our enemies, and secure our property, it is well enough; a scarecrow is a thing of straw, but it protects the corn.