The Race By Vigour, Not By Vaunts,

Nay, Fly To Altars; There They'll Talk You Dead; For Fools Rush In Where Angels Fear To Tread.

Of Darkness Visible So Much Be Lent, As Half To Show, Half Veil, The Deep Intent.

Here Thou, Great Anna! Whom Three Realms Obey, / Dost Sometimes Counsel Take—and Sometimes Tea.

The Dying Christian To His Soul (1712) -vital Spark Of Heav'nly Flame! Quit, Oh Quit, This Mortal Frame: Trembling, Hoping, Ling'ring, Flying, Oh The Pain, The Bliss Of Dying! Stanza 1.

Praise Undeserved, Is Satire In Disguise.