Flattery, the dangerous nurse of vice.

Sacred religion! mother of form and fear.

And who in time knows whither we may vent the treasure of our tongue, to what strange shores this gain of our best glories shall be sent, 't unknowing Nations with our stores? What worlds in the yet unformed Occident may come refined with the accents that are ours?

Flattery, the dangerous nurse of vice.

Beauty, sweet love, is like the morning dew, Whose short refresh upon tender green, Cheers for a time, but till the sun doth show And straight is gone, as it had never been.

Love is a sickness full of woes, All remedies refusing; A plant that with most cutting grows, Most barren with best using.

Custom, that is before all law; Nature, that is above all art.