Those half-learn'd witlings, num'rous in our isle As half-form'd insects on the banks of Nile

The statue was of a nude woman playing a slide trombone. It was entitles, enigmatically, Evelyn and Her Magic Violin.

Happy the man, whose wish and careA few paternal acres bound,Content to breathe his native airIn his own ground.

Trust not yourself; but your defects to know,Make use of ev'ry friend__nd ev'ry foe.

Where beams of imagination play,The memory's soft figures melt away.

While pensive poets painful vigils keep,Sleepless themselves, to give their readers sleep.