Poets by Death are conquer'd but the wit Of poets triumphs over it.

Of all ills that one endures,/ hope is a cheap and universal cure.

Though you be absent here, I needs must say / The trees as beauteous are, and flowers as gay, / As ever they were wont to be.

Nothing is there to come, and nothing past, But an eternal Now does always last.

Vain, weak-built isthmus, which dost proudly rise Up between two eternities!

Gold begets in brethren hate; Gold in families debate; Gold does friendship separate; Gold does civil wars create.