Rhyme is the rock on which thou art to wreck.
Love is love's reward.
Thus, while the mute creation downward bend Their sight, and to their earthly mother ten, Man looks aloft; and with erected eyes Beholds his own hereditary skies.
Errors like straws upon the surface flow, Who would search for pearls to be grateful for often must dive below.
The blushing beauties of a modest maid.
Few know the use of life before 'tis past.