Still follow sense, of ev'ry art the soul, Parts answering parts shall slide into a whole.
The soul, uneasy and confin'd from home, Rests and expatiates in a life to come.
The mouse that always trusts to one poor hole Can never be a mouse of any soul.
Superstition is the spleen of the soul.
Heaven breathes thro' ev'ry member of the whole One common blessing, as one common soul.
Charm strikes the sight, but merit wins the soul.
Speed the soft intercourse from soul to soul, And waft a sigh from Indus to the Pole.
Statesman, yet friend to truth! of soul sincere, In action faithful, and in honour clear; Who broke no promise, serv'd no private end, Who gain'd no title, and who lost no friend.
To wake the soul by tender strokes of art, To raise the genius, and to mend the heart; To make mankind, in conscious virtue bold, Live o'er each Seene, and be what they behold: For this the Tragic Muse first trod the stage.
To the Elysian shades dismiss my soul, where no carnation fades.
Charms strike the sight, but merit wins the soul
No craving void left aching in the soul.
Is there a parson much bemused in beer, a maudlin poetess, a rhyming peer, a clerk foredoom'd his father's soul to cross, who pens a stanza when he should engross?
Drink is the feast of reason and the flow of soul.