The best way to excape his ire Is, not to seem too happy.

Tis looking downward makes one dizzy.

Every one soon or late comes round by Rome.

What? Was man made a wheel-work to wind up, And be discharged, and straight wound up anew? No! grown, his growth lasts; taught, he ne'er forgets: May learn a thousand things, not twice the same.

Our interest's on the dangerous edge of things. The honest thief, the tender murderer, the superstitious atheist.

Why comes temptation but for man to meet And master and make crouch beneath his foot, And so be pedestaled in triumph?

God is the perfect poet, Who in his person acts his own creations.