Nay, Droop Not, Fellows; Innocence Should Be

Thou Art Figured Blind, And Yet We Borrow Our Best Sight From Thee.

Ill News Are Swallow-winged, But What Is Good Walks On Crutches.

We Have Not An Hour Of Life In Which Our Pleasures Relish Not Some Pain, Our Sours, Some Sweetness.

Greatness, With Private Men Esteem'd A Blessing, Is To Me A Curse; And We, Whom, For Our High Births, They Conclude The Happy Freemen, Are The Only Slaves. Happy The Golden Mean!

Virtue, Thou In Rags, May Challenge More Than Vice Set Off With All The Trim Of Greatness.