Monuments, like men, submit to fate.

The bookful blockhead, ignorantly read With loads of learned lumber in his head.

Those oft are stratagems which errors seem Nor is it Homer nods, but we that dream.

Cursed be the verse, how well so e'er it flow, That tends to make one worthy man my foe.

Though triumphs were to generals only due, crowns were reserved to grace the soldiers too.

Find, if you can, in what you cannot change. Manners with fortunes, humours turn with climes, Tenets with books, and principles with times.

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