And as pale sickness does invade, Your frailer part, the breaches made, In that fair lodging still more clear, Make the bright guest, your soul, appear.

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.

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

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

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.

What use of oaths, of promise, or of test, where men regard no God but interest?

For all we know Of what the blessed do above Is, that they sing, and that they love. While I listen to thy Voice.