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

Give us enough but with a sparing hand.

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.

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

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.

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

With wisdom fraught; not such as books, but such as practice taught.