O let me be undone the common way, And have the common comfort to be pity'd, And not be ruin'd in the mask of bliss, And so be envy'd, and be wretched too!

Who lives to Nature, rarely can be poor ; who lives to fancy, never can be rich.

The spirit walks of every day deceased.

There buds the promise of celestial worth.

We nothing know, but what is marvellous; Yet what is marvellous, we can't believe.

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.

Pygmies are pygmies still, though percht on Alps; And pyramids are pyramids in vales. Each man makes his own stature, builds himself. Virtue alone outbuilds the Pyramids; Her monuments shall last when Egypt's fall.