All human things Of dearest value hang on slender strings.
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.
The fear of Hell, or aiming to be blest, Savors too much of private interest. This moved not Moses, nor the zealous Paul, Who for their friends abandoned soul and all.
Others may use the ocean as their road; Only the English make it their abode.
The chain that's fixed to the throne of Jove, On which the fabric of our world depends, One link dissolved, the whole creation ends.