Go, lovely rose, Tell her that wastes her time and me, That now she knows, When I resemble her to thee, How sweet and fair she seems to be.

Thrice happy is that humble pair, Beneath the level of all care! Over whose heads those arrows fly, Of sad distrust and jealousy.

The soul's dark cottage, batter'd and decay'd, Lets in new light through chinks that Time has made. Stronger by weakness, wiser men become As they draw near to their eternal home: Leaving the old, both worlds at once they view That stand upon the threshold of the new.

What use of oaths, of promise, or of test, where men regard no God but interest?

Virtue's a stronger guard than brass.

So must the writer, whose productions should Take with the vulgar, be of vulgar mould.

When religion doth with virtue join, it makes a hero like an angel shine.