Ambition first sprung from your blest abodes: the glorious fault of angels and of gods.

The lamb thy riot dooms to bleed today, Had he thy reason, would he skip and play? Pleas'd to the last he crops the flow'ry food, And licks the hand just rais'd to shed his blood.

We think our fathers fools, so wise we grow. Our wiser sons, no doubt will think us so.

As some to church repair, Not for the doctrine, but the music there. These equal syllables alone require, Though oft the ear the open vowels tire While expletives their feeble aid do join, And ten low words oft creep in one dull line.

The most positive men are the most credulous, since they most believe themselves, and advise most with their falsest flatterer and worst enemy--their own self-love.

Cavil you may, but never criticise.

On cold December fragrant chaplets blow, And heavy harvests nod beneath the snow.