Pity Melts The Mind To Love.

Joy Rul'd The Day, And Love The Night.

A Satirical Poet Is The Check Of The Laymen On Bad Priests.

Love Is A Child That Talks In Broken Language, Yet Then He Speaks Most Plain.

The Gods, (if Gods To Goodness Are Inclined If Acts Of Mercy Touch Their Heavenly Mind), And, More Than All The Gods, Your Generous Heart, Conscious Of Worth, Requite Its Own Desert!

At Home The Hateful Names Of Parties Cease, And Factious Souls Are Wearied Into Peace.