Where grows?--where grows it not? If vain our toil, We ought to blame the culture, not the soil.

Here Ceres' gifts in waving prospect stand, And nodding tempt the joyful reaper's hand.

Our rural ancestors with little blest, Patient of labour when the end was rest, Indulg'd the day that hous'd their annual grain, With feasts, and off'rings, and a thankful strain.

Order is heaven's first law.

The world forgetting, by the world forgot.

Genius creates, and taste preserves. Taste is the good sense of genius; without taste, genius is only sublime folly.