We frolic while 'tis May.

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.

Ruin seize thee, ruthless king! Confusion on thy banners wait! Though fann'd by Conquest's crimson wing, They mock the air with idle state.

Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame, With many a foul and midnight murder fed.

One principal characteristic of vice in the present age is the contempt of fame.

The applause of list'ning senates to command, The threats of pain and ruin to despise, To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, And read their history in a nation's eyes.

Poetry is thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.