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His faith, perhaps, in some nice tenets might Be wrong; his life, I’m sure, was in the right.

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Vain, weak-built isthmus, which dost proudly rise Up between two eternities!
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Beauty, thou wild fantastic ape Who dost in every country change thy shape!
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Gold begets in brethren hate; Gold in families debate; Gold does friendship separate; Gold does civil wars create.
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To th’ active Moon a quick brisk stroke he gave, To Saturn’s string a touch more sore and grave.
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When Harvey’s violent passion she did see, Began to tremble and to flee; Took sanctuary, like Daphne, in a tree
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Nature waits upon thee still, And thy verdant cup does fill; ‘Tis fill’d wherever thou dost tread, Nature’s self’s thy Ganymede.
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Fill the bowl with rosy wine, around our temples roses twine, And let us cheerfully awhile, like wine and roses, smile.
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God the first garden made, and the first city Cain.
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Awake, awake, my Lyre!And tell thy silent master’s humble taleIn sounds that may prevail;Sounds that gentle thoughts inspire
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There have been fewer friends on earth than kings.
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I might be master at last of a small house and a large garden, with very moderate conveniences joined to them, and there dedicate the remainder of my life to the culture of them and the study of nature.
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Does not the passage of Moses and the Israelites into the Holy Land yield incomparably more poetic variety than the voyages of Ulysses or Aeneas?
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