Give me, indulgent gods with mind serene, And guiltless heart, to range the sylvan scene, No splendid poverty, no smiling care, No well-bred hate, or servile grandeur, there.

This vast and solid earth, that blazing sun, Those skies, thro' which it rolls, must all have end. What then is man? The smallest part of nothing.

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

We cry for mercy to the next amusement, The next amusement mortgages our fields

Death loves a shining mark, a signal blow.

The qualities all in a bee that we meet, In an epigram never should fail; The body should always be little and sweet, And a sting should be felt in its tail.

Sweet instinct leaps; slow reason feebly climbs.