Where stray ye, Muses! in what lawn or grove, . . . . In those fair fields where sacred Isis glides, Or else where Cam his winding vales divides?

Now scantier limits the proud arch confine, And scarce are seen the prostrate Nile or Rhine; A small Euphrates thro' the piece is roll'd, And little eagles wave their wings in gold.

The deepest rivers make least din, The silent soule doth most abound in care.

Order is heaven's first law.

The world forgetting, by the world forgot.

Genius creates, and taste preserves. Taste is the good sense of genius; without taste, genius is only sublime folly.