From toil he wins his spirits light, From busy day the peaceful night; Rich, from the very want of wealth, In heaven's best treasures, peace and health.

Rich with the spoils of time.

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.

If the best man's faults were written on his forehead, he would draw his hat over his eyes.

Here rests his head upon the lap of earth, A youth to fortune and to fame unknown: Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth, And Melancholy mark'd him for her own.

What female heart can gold despise? What cat 's averse to fish?

Can honor's voice provoke the silent dust, or flattery soothe the dull, cold ear of death?