Sweet is the breath of vernal shower,/ The bee's collected treasure sweet,/ Sweet music's melting fall, but sweeter yet/ The still small voice of gratitude.

But knowledge to their eyes her ample page Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll; Chill Penury repressed their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul.

Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.

Visions of glory, spare my aching sight! Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul!

I shall be but a shrimp of an author.

Now as the Paradisiacal pleasures of the Mahometans consist in playing upon the flute and lying with Houris, be mine to read eternal new romances of Marivaux and Crebillon.

Beyond the limits of a vulgar fate, Beneath the good how far,-but far above the great.