Embosom'd in the deep where Holland lies. Methinks her patient sons before me stand, Where the broad ocean leans against the land.

Measures, not men, have always been my mark.

Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog And in that town a dog was found, As many dogs there be, Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound, And curs of low degree.

The watch-dog's voice that bay'd the whispering wind, And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind.

Like the bee, we should make our industry our amusement.

The Europeans are themselves blind who describe fortune without sight. No first-rate beauty ever had finer eyes, or saw more clearly. They who have no other trade but seeking their fortune need never hope to find her; coquette-like, she flies from her close pursuers, and at last fixes on the plodding mechanic who stays at home and minds his business.

So the loud torrent, and the whirlwind's roar, But bind him to his native mountains more.