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Ev'n so, with all submission, I . . . . Send you each year a homely letter, Who may return me much a better.

And oft the pangs of absence to remove By letters, soft interpreters of love.

What is a king? a man condemn'd to bear The public burthen of the nation's care.

Odds life! must one swear to the truth of a song?

The winds grow high; Impending tempests charge the sky; The lightning flies, the thunder roars; And big waves lash the frightened shores.

When Croft's "Life of Dr. Young" was spoken of as a good imitation of Dr. Johnson's style, "No, no," said he, "it is not a good imitation of Johnson; it has all his pomp without his force; it has all the nodosities of the oak, without its strength; it has all the contortions of the sibyl, without the inspiration."

They never taste who always drink; They always talk who never think.

Serene yet strong, majestic yet sedate, Swift without violence, without terror great.

Variety alone gives joy; The sweetest meats the soonest cloy.

A Rechabite poor Will must live, And drink of Adam's ale.