Till their own dreams at length decive 'em

Forbear to mention what thou canst not praise.

From ignorance our comfort flows. The only wretched are the wise.

The end must justify the means.

That if weak women went astray, Their stars were more in fault than they.

Our hopes, like towering falcons, aim At objects in an airy height; The little pleasure of the game Is from afar to view the flight.

Soft peace she brings; wherever she arrives She builds our quiet as she forms our lives; Lays the rough paths of peevish Nature even, And opens in each heart a little heaven.