Let sinful bachelors their woes deplore; full well they merit all they feel, and more: unaw by precepts, human or divine, like birds and beasts, promiscuously they join.

Good sense, which only is the gift of Heaven, And though no science, fairly worth the seven.

Great oaks grow from little acorns. He has a green thumb. He has green fingers. He's sowing his wild oats. Here Ceres' gifts in waving prospect stand, And nodding tempt the joyful reaper's hand.

A work of art that contains theories is like an object on which the price tag has been left.

No craving void left aching in the soul.

Aurora now, fair daughter of the dawn, Sprinkled with rosy light the dewy lawn.

Slave to no sect, who takes no private road, But looks through Nature up to Nature's God.