Give me, kind heaven, a private station, a mind serene for contemplation.

When if or chance or hunger's powerful sway Directs the roving trout this fatal way, He greedily sucks in the twining bait, And tugs and nibbles the fallacious meat. Now, happy fisherman; now twitch the line! How thy rod bends! behold, the prize is thine!

Sure men were born to lie, and women to believe them!

Follow love and it will flee, flee love and it will follow thee.

To shoot at crows is powder flung away.

Music might tame and civilize wild beasts, but 'tis evident it never yet could tame and civilize musicians.

Who talks much, must talk in vain.