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

Ingenious to their ruin, every age improves the art and instruments of rage.

Gods, that never change their state, vary oft their love and hate.

Give us enough but with a sparing hand.

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

For all we know Of what the blessed do above Is, that they sing, and that they love. While I listen to thy Voice.

Happy is she that from the world retires, and carries with her what the world admires.