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.

All things but one you can restore; the heart you get returns no more.

Vexed sailors cursed the rain, for which poor shepherds prayed in vain.

If its length be not considered a merit, it hath no other.

Give us enough but with a sparing hand.

Fade, flowers, fade! Nature will have it so; 'tis but what we in our autumn do.

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