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.

Others may use the ocean as their road; Only the English make it their abode.

Stronger by weakness, wiser men become.

Thrice happy is that humble pair, Beneath the level of all care! Over whose heads those arrows fly, Of sad distrust and jealousy.

If its length be not considered a merit, it hath no other.

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

Poets that lasting marble seek, Must come in Latin or in Greek.