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And I myself a Catholic will be, So far at least, great saint, to pray to thee. Hail, Bard triumphant! and some care bestow On us, the Poets militant below.

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Best Care Catholic Great Now Religion Saint Triumphant

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Poets by Death are conquer’d but the wit Of poets triumphs over it.
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Vain, weak-built isthmus, which dost proudly rise Up between two eternities!
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Plenty, as well as Want, can separate friends.
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I never had any other desire so strong, and so like covetousness, as that
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This only grant me, that my means may lie, too low for envy, for contempt to high.
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I would not fear nor wish my fate, but boldly say each night, to-morrow let my sun his beams display, or in clouds hide them; I have lived today.
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Solitude can be used well by very few people. They who do must have a knowledge of the world to see the foolishness of it, and enough virtue to despise all the vanity.
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Why dost thou heap up wealth, which thou must quit, Or what is worse, be left by it? Why dost thou load thyself when thou ‘rt to fly, Oh, man! ordain’d to die?
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Nothing so soon the drooping spirits can raise As praises from the men, whom all men praise.
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Hope! fortune’s cheating lottery; when for one prize an hundred blanks there be!
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May I a small house and large garden have; And a few friends, And many books, both true.
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What shall I do to be for ever known, And make the age to come my own?
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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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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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