For thee I dim these eye and stuff this head With all such reading as was never read.

Yet graceful ease, and sweetness void of pride, Might hide her faults, if belles had faults to hide: If to her share some female errors fall, Look on her face, and you'll forget 'em all.

The season when to come, and when to go, to sing, or cease to sing, we never know.

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.

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

Great oaks grow from little acorns. He has a green thumb. He has green fingers. He's sowing his wild oats. Here Ceres' gifts in waving prospect stand, And nodding tempt the joyful reaper's hand.

A God without dominion, providence, and final causes, is nothing else but fate and nature.