Men should press forward, in fame's glorious chase; Nobles look backward, and so lose the race.

Who can take Death's portrait? The tyrant never sat.

Tis immortality, 'tis that alone, Amid life's pains, abasements, emptiness, The soul can comfort, elevate, and fill. That only, and that amply this performs.

The love of praise, howe'er conceal'd by art, Reigns more or less, and glows in ev'ry heart.

Inhumanity is caught from man, From smiling man.

Sense is our helmet, wit is but the plume; The plume exposes, 'tis our helmet saves. Sense is the diamond, weighty, solid, sound; When cut by wit, it casts a brighter beam; Yet, wit apart, it is a diamond still.

I've known my lady (for she loves a tune) For fevers take an opera in June: And, though perhaps you'll think the practice bold, A midnight park is sov'reign for a cold.