Smooth lies the road to Pluto's gloomy shade, And hell's black gates for ever stand displayed, But 'tis a long unconquerable pain, To climb to these … - Christopher Pitt

Be this your nobler praise in times to come,
These your imperial arts, ye sons of Rome!
O'er distant realms to stretch your awful sway,
To bid those nations tremble and obey;
To crush the proud, the suppliant foe to rear,
To give mankind a peace, or shake the world with war.

To all, proportioned terms he must dispense, And make the sound a picture of the sense.

Poor pitied youth! ... Bring fragrant flowers, the whitest lilies bring, With all the purple beauties of the spring; These gifts at least, these honours I'll bestow On the dear youth, to please his shade below.