Poets that lasting marble seek, Must come in Latin or in Greek.

Tea does our fancy aid, Repress those vapours which the head invade And keeps that palace of the soul serene.

When religion doth with virtue join, it makes a hero like an angel shine.

Circle are praised, not that abound, In largeness, but the exactly round.

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.

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.

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