Music so softens and disarms the mind That not an arrow does resistance find.

The seas are quiet when the winds give o'er; So calm are we when passions are no more!

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

Go, lovely rose, Tell her that wastes her time and me, That now she knows, When I resemble her to thee, How sweet and fair she seems to be.

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.

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.