Horace appears in good humor while he censures, and therefore his censure has the more weight, as supposed to proceed from judgment and not from passion.

Think naught a trifle, though it small appear; Small stands the mountain, moments make the year, and trifles life.

Creation sleeps! 'T is as the general pulse Of life stood still, and Nature made a pause,- An awful pause! prophetic of her end.

When men of infamy to grandeur soar, They light a torch to show their shame the more.

Some for renown, on scraps of learning dote, And think they grow immortal as they quote.

Sweet instinct leaps; slow reason feebly climbs.

Our birth is nothing but our death begun; As tapers waste, that instant they take fire.