That eagle's fate and mine are one, Which, on the shaft that made him die, Espied a feather of his own, Wherewith he wont to soar so high.

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

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

Stronger by weakness, wiser men become.

Give us enough but with a sparing hand.

Vexed sailors cursed the rain, for which poor shepherds prayed in vain.