TABLE TALK. Si te fortè meæ gravis uret sarcina chartæ, A. You told me, I remember, glory, built B. I grant that, men continuing what they are, Let laurels, drench'd in pure Parnassian dews, Is base in kind, and born to be a slave. The wretch to nought but his ambition true, Then view him self-proclaim'd in a gazette Chief monster that has plagu'd the nations yet. The glass, that bids man mark the fleeting hour, pow'r; Then grace the bony phantom in their stead A. 'Tis your belief the world was made for man; Kings do but reason on the selfsame plan : Maintaining yours, you cannot theirs condemn, Who think, or seem to think, man made for them. Such reas'ning falls like an inverted cone, The diadem, with mighty projects lin'd To nurse with tender care the thriving arts; |