Sorrow preys upon Its solitude, and nothing more diverts it From its sad visions of the other world Than calling it at moments back to this. The busy have no time for tears.
Romances paint at full length people's wooing. But only give a bust of marriages.
You gave me the key to your heart, my love, then why did you make me knock?
I would rather have a nod from an American, than a snuff- box from an emperor.
Glory, like the phoenix 'midst her fires, Exhales her odours, blazes, and expires.
Not to admire, is all the art I know To make men happy, or to keep them so. Thus Horace wrote we all know long ago; And thus Pope quotes the precept to re-teach From his translation; but had none admired, Would Pope have sung, or Horace been inspired?