Dreams Are Like Portraits; And We Find

Temp'rate In Every Place--abroad, At Home, Thence Will Applause, And Hence Will Profit Come; And Health From Either--he In Time Prepares For Sickness, Age, And Their Attendant Cares.

Feel You The Barren Flattery Of A Rhyme? Can Poets Soothe You, When You Pine For Bread, By Winding Myrtle Round Your Ruin'd Shed?

Habit With Him Was All The Test Of Truth; It Must Be Right: I've Done It From My Youth.

Feed The Musician, And He's Out Of Tune.

I Grant Indeed That Fields And Flocks Have Charms, For Him That Gazes Or For Him That Farms.