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

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.

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.

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

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

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