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

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.

Gods, that never change their state, vary oft their love and hate.

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

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

Virtue's a stronger guard than brass.

How small a part of time they share, That are so wondrous sweet and fair!