We wish our names eternally to live; Wild dream! which ne'er had haunted human thought, Had not our natures been eternal too.

Where, where for shelter shall the guilty fly, When consternation turns the good man pale?

Insatiate archer! could not one suffice? Thy shaft flew thrice, and thrice my peace was slain; And thrice, ere thrice yon moon had filled her horn.

There is nothing of which men are more liberal than their good advice, be their stock of it ever so small; because it seems to carry in it an intimation of their own influence, importance or worth.

The booby father craves a booby son, And by Heaven's blessing thinks himself undone.

'T is greatly wise to talk with our past hours, And ask them what report they bore to heaven.

With fame, in just proportion, envy grows.