The lark that shuns on lofty boughs to build, Her humble nest, lies silent in the field.

Ingenious to their ruin, every age improves the art and instruments of rage.

The soul's dark cottage, batter'd and decay'd, Lets in new light through chinks that Time has made. Stronger by weakness, wiser men become As they draw near to their eternal home: Leaving the old, both worlds at once they view That stand upon the threshold of the new.

Poets that lasting marble seek, Must come in Latin or in Greek.

The fear of Hell, or aiming to be blest, Savors too much of private interest. This moved not Moses, nor the zealous Paul, Who for their friends abandoned soul and all.

What use of oaths, of promise, or of test, where men regard no God but interest?

How small a part of time they share, That are so wondrous sweet and fair!