Beauty, like ice, our footing does betray; Who can tread sure on the smooth, slippery way: Pleased with the surface, we glide swiftly on, And see the dangers that we cannot shun.
She, though in full-blown flower of glorious beauty, Grows cold even in the summer of her age.
Imitators are but a servile kind of cattle.
Pity only on fresh objects stays, but with the tedious sight of woes decays.
The glorious lamp of heaven, the radiant sun, Is Nature's eye.
All empire is no more than power in trust.