Party-spirit at best is but the madness of many for the gain of a few.

Chaste to her husband, frank to all beside, A teeming mistress, but a barren bride.

Dear fatal name! rest ever unreveal'd, Nor pass these lips in holy silence seal'd. Hide it, my heart, within that close disguise, Where mixed with Gods, his lov'd idea lies: O write it not, my hand - the name appears Already written - wash it out, my tears! In vain lost Eloisa weeps and prays, Her heart still dictates, and her hand obeyes.

Whether the charmer sinner it, or saint it, If folly grow romantic, I must paint it.

Choose a firm cloud before it fall, and in it Catch, ere she change, the Cynthia of this minute.

A little learning is a dangerous thing.

What will a child learn sooner than a song?