Ingenious to their ruin, every age improves the art and instruments of rage.

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.

Vexed sailors cursed the rain, for which poor shepherds prayed in vain.

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

The soul's dark cottage, batter'd and decay'd, Lets in new light through chinks that Time has made. Stronger by weakness, wiser men become As they draw near to their eternal home: Leaving the old, both worlds at once they view That stand upon the threshold of the new.

The chain that's fixed to the throne of Jove, On which the fabric of our world depends, One link dissolved, the whole creation ends.

If its length be not considered a merit, it hath no other.