Death, only death, can break the lasting chain; And here, ev'n then, shall my cold dust remain

And seem to walk on wings, and tread in air.

Authors, like coins, grow dear as they grow old.

Chiefs who no more in bloody fights engage, But wise through time, and narrative with age, In summer-days like grasshoppers rejoice - A bloodless race, that send a feeble voice.

A saint in crape is twice a saint in lawn.

Virtue alone is happiness below.

Fame, wealth, and honour! what are you to Love?