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Her tears, like drops of molten lead,
With torment burn the passage to my heart.
High-built abundance, heap on heap! for what?
To breed new wants, and beggar us the more,
Then, make a richer scramble for the throng.
Hold their farthing candle to the sun.
Horace appears in good humor while he censures, and therefore his censure has the more weight as supposed to proceed from judgment, not from passion.
How blessings brighten as they take their flight.
How commentators each dark passage shun,
And hold their farthing candle to the sun.
How many sleep who keep the world awake!
How must a spirit, late escaped from earth, the truth of things new blazing in its eyes, look back astonished on the ways of men, whose lives' whole drift is to forget their graves!
How populous, how vital is the grave!
How science dwindles, and how volumes swell!
How the tall temples, as to meet their gods,
Ascend the skies!
How wretched is the man who never mourned?
Humble love, and not proud science, keens the door of heaven.
I envy none the gilding of their woe.
If not to some peculiar end assign'd,
Study's the specious trifling of the mind;
Or is at best a secondary aim,
A chase for sport alone and not for game.
If satire charms, strike faults, but spare the man.
If we did but know how little some enjoy of the great things that they possess, there would not be much envy in the world.
If wrong our hearts, our heads are right in vain.
If you resent, and wish a woman ill,
But turn her o'er one moment to her will.
In our world, death deputes intemperance to do the work of age.
Is not the mighty mind, that son of heaven!
By tyrant life dethroned, imprison'd, pain'd?
By death enlarg'd, ennobled, deify'd?
Death but entombs the body; life the soul.
It is falling in love with our own mistaken ideas that makes fools and beggars of half mankind.
It is greatly wise to talk with our past hours, and ask them what report they bore to heaven, and how they might have borne more welcome news.
It's not enough plagues, wars, and famine rise to lash our crimes, but must our wives be wise?
Jealousy, thou grand counterpoise for all the transports beauty can inspire!
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