Fair tresses man's imperial race ensnare; And beauty draws us with a single hair.

What's fame? a fancy'd life in other's breath. A thing beyond us, even before our death.

Ah! why, ye Gods, should two and two make four?

I find myself hoping a total end of all the unhappy divisions of mankind by party-spirit, which at best is but the madness of many for the gain of a few.

Fickle Fortune reigns, and, undiscerning, scatters crowns and chains.

Blest paper-credit! last and best supply! That lends corruption lighter wings to fly!

Who taught that heaven-directed spire to rise?