The waves beside them danced; but they/ Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:/ A poet could not but be gay,/ In such a jocund company.

A poet who has not produced a good poem before he is twenty-five, we may conclude cannot, and never will do so.

Take a pair of sparkling eyes.

Tax not the royal Saint with vain expense.

Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room;And hermits are contented with their cells.

There's not a nook within this solemn pass/ But were an apt confessional for one/ Taught by his summer spent, his autumn gone,/ That life is but a tale of morning grass/ Withered at eve.