So must the writer, whose productions should Take with the vulgar, be of vulgar mould. |
Stronger by weakness, wiser men become. |
That eagle's fate and mine are one, Which, on the shaft that made him die, Espied a feather of his own, Wherewith he wont to soar so high. |
The chain that's fixed to the throne of Jove, On which the fabric of our world depends, One link dissolved, the whole creation ends. |
The fear of hell, or aiming to be blest, savors too much of private interest. |
The lark that shuns on lofty boughs to build, Her humble nest, lies silent in the field. |
The seas are quiet when the winds give o'er; So calm are we when passions are no more! |
The soul's dark cottage, battered and decayed,
Lets in new light through chinks that time has made. Stronger by weakness, wiser men become, As they draw near to their eternal home. |
The yielding marble of her snowy breast. |
Though with judgment we on things reflect,/ Our will determines, not our intellect. |
Thrice happy is that humble pair, Beneath the level of all care! Over whose heads those arrows fly, Of sad distrust and jealousy. |
Vexed sailors cursed the rain, for which poor shepherds prayed in vain. |
Virtue's stronger guard than brass. |