E'en in mid-harvest, while the jocund swain Pluck'd from the brittle stalk the golden grain, Oft have I seen the war of winds contend, And prone on earth th' infuriate storm descend, Waste far and wide, and by the roots uptorn, The heavy harvest sweep through ether borne, As light straw and rapid stubble fly In dark'ning whirlwinds round the wintry sky.

I feel again a spark of that ancient flame.

Your descendants shall gather your fruits.

That man is the most loyal who aims at the noblest motive, and that motive the public good.

Beware of Greeks bearing gifts.

Do not yield to misfortunes, but advance more boldly to meet them, as your fortune permits you.

Curst greed of gold, what crimes thy tyrant power has caused.