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

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.

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.

His love at once and dread instruct our thought; As man He suffer'd and as God He taught.

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

But virtue too, as well as vice, is clad in flesh and blood.

That eagle's fate and mine are one, Which, on the shaft that made him die, Espied a feather of his own, Wherewith he wont to soar so high.