Narcissus is the glory of his race: For who does nothing with a better grace?.

When men once reach their autumn, sickly joys fall off apace, as yellow leaves from trees

Give me, indulgent gods with mind serene, And guiltless heart, to range the sylvan scene, No splendid poverty, no smiling care, No well-bred hate, or servile grandeur, there.

Satire recoils whenever charged too high; round your own fame the fatal splinters fly.

Tomorrow is the day when idlers work, and fools reform and mortal men lay hold on heaven.

What tender force, what dignity divine, what virtue consecrating every feature; around that neck what dross are gold and pearl!

Ocean into tempest wrought, To waft a feather, or to drown a fly.