When Much Dispute Has Past, We Find

A Generous Friendship No Cold Medium Knows, Burns With One Love, With One Resentment Glows.

Fine Sense And Exalted Sense Are Not Half So Useful As Common Sense.

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

Great Oaks Grow From Little Acorns. He Has A Green Thumb. He Has Green Fingers. He's Sowing His Wild Oats. Here Ceres' Gifts In Waving Prospect Stand, And Nodding Tempt The Joyful Reaper's Hand.

No More Was Seen The Human Form Divine.