But virtue too, as well as vice, is clad in flesh and blood.

The soul's dark cottage, batter'd and decay'd, Lets in new light through chinks that Time has made. Stronger by weakness, wiser men become As they draw near to their eternal home: Leaving the old, both worlds at once they view That stand upon the threshold of the new.

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.

When religion doth with virtue join, it makes a hero like an angel shine.

Tea does our fancy aid, Repress those vapours which the head invade And keeps that palace of the soul serene.

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

Give us enough but with a sparing hand.