Illustrious acts high raptures do infuse, And every conqueror creates a muse.

And keeps the palace of the soul.

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

Happy the innocent whose equal thoughts are free from anguish as they are from faults.

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.

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

Happy is she that from the world retires, and carries with her what the world admires.