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

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

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.

All things but one you can restore; the heart you get returns no more.

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

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

Others may use the ocean as their road; Only the English make it their abode.