How poor, how rich, how abject, how august, How complicate, how wonderful, is man!... Midway from nothing to the Deity!

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.

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

Nothing in Nature, much less conscious being, Was e'er created solely for itself.

Death loves a shining mark, a signal blow.

Death! great proprietor of all! 'tis thine To tread out empire, and to quench the stars.

Beautiful as sweet, And young as beautiful, and soft as young, And gay as soft, and innocent as gay!