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The fear of hell, or aiming to be blest, savors too much of private interest.
– Edmund Waller
The lark that shuns on lofty boughs to build, Her humble nest, lies silent in the field.
Poets lose half the praise they should have got, Could it be known what they discreetly blot.
Leaving the old, both worlds at once they view, That stand upon the threshold of the new.
Illustrious acts high raptures do infuse, And every conqueror creates a muse.
All human things Of dearest value hang on slender strings.
Others may use the ocean as their road; Only the English make it their abode.
Could we forbear dispute, and practise love, We should agree as angels do above.
Poets that lasting marble seek Must come in Latin or in Greek.
Tea does our fancy aid, Repress those vapours which the head invade, And keeps that palace of the soul serene.
His love at once and dread instruct our thought; As man He suffer’d and as God He taught.
So must the writer, whose productions should Take with the vulgar, be of vulgar mould.
To love is to believe, to hope, to know; Tis an essay, a taste of Heaven below!
Circle are praised, not that abound, In largeness, but the exactly round.
And as pale sickness does invade, Your frailer part, the breaches made, In that fair lodging still more clear, Make the bright guest, your soul, appear.
Vexed sailors cursed the rain, for which poor shepherds prayed in vain.
Stronger by weakness, wiser men become.
The seas are quiet when the winds give o’er; So calm are we when passions are no more!
Go, lovely rose! Tell her that wastes her time and me That now she knows, When I resemble her to thee, How sweet and fair she seems to be.
Give us enough but with a sparing hand.
A narrow compass! and yet there Dwelt all that ‘s good, and all that ‘s fair; Give me but what this riband bound, Take all the rest the sun goes round.
How small a part of time they share, That are so wondrous sweet and fair!