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.

Stronger by weakness, wiser men become.

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

Poets lose half the praise they should have got, Could it be known what they discreetly blot.

Music so softens and disarms the mind That not an arrow does resistance find.

Circle are praised, not that abound, In largeness, but the exactly round.

Tea does our fancy aid, Repress those vapours which the head invade And keeps that palace of the soul serene.