Behold the groves that shine with silver frost, their beauty withered, and their verdure lost!
"With ev'ry pleasing, ev'ry prudent part, Say, what can Chloe want?"-She wants a heart.
The light of Heaven restore; Give me to see, and Ajax asks no more.
And make each day a critic on the last.
Ah! why, ye Gods, should two and two make four?
Be not the first by whom the new are tried, Nor yet the last to lay the old aside.