A narrow compass! and yet there Dwelt all that 's good, and all that 's fair; Give me but what this riband bound, Take all the rest the sun goes round.

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

Virtue's a stronger guard than brass.

And keeps the palace of the soul.

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

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

Under the tropic is our language spoke, And part of Flanders hath receiv'd our yoke.