But 'midst the crowd, the hum, the shock of men, To hear, to see, to feel, and to possess, And roam along, the world's tired denizen, With none who bless us, none whom we can bless.

They never fail who die in a great cause.

He who grown aged in this world of woe, In deeds, not years, piercing the depths of life, So that no wonder waits him.

Christians have burnt each other, quite persuaded. That all the Apostles would have done as they did.

Folly loves the martyrdom of fame.

Admire, exult, despise, laugh, weep for here There is such matter for all feelings: Man! Thou pendulum betwixt a smile and tear.

May Moorland weavers boast Pindaric skill, And tailors' lays be longer than their bill! While punctual beaux reward the grateful notes, And pay for poems--when they pay for coats.