Music Is Inarticulate Poesy.

Happy The Man, And Happy He Alone, He, Who Can Call Today His Own.

Take The Good The Gods Provide Thee.

Zeal, The Blind Conductor Of The Will.

But 'tis The Talent Of Our English Nation, Still To Be Plotting Some New Reformation.

Fortune's Unjust; She Ruins Oft The Brave, And Him Who Should Be Victor, Makes The Slave.