Wretches Hang That Jurymen May

Virtue Alone Is Happiness Below.

See The Wild Waste Of All-devouring Years! How Rome Her Own Sad Sepulchre Appears, With Nodding Arches, Broken Temples Spread! The Very Tombs Now Vanish'd Like Their Dead!

Be Niggards Of Advice On No Pretense; For The Worst Avarice Is That Of Sense.

Here Thou, Great Anna! Whom Three Realms Obey, / Dost Sometimes Counsel Take—and Sometimes Tea.

Genius Creates, And Taste Preserves. Taste Is The Good Sense Of Genius; Without Taste, Genius Is Only Sublime Folly.