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

Angels are men of a superior kind; Angels are men in lighter habit clad.

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.

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

Groan under gold, yet weep for want of bread.

What is a miracle?--'Tis a reproach, 'Tis an implicit satire on mankind; And while it satisfies, it censures too.

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