Behold the groves that shine with silver frost, their beauty withered, and their verdure lost!
Nor Fame I slight, nor her favors call.
Chaos of thought and passion, all confused; Still by himself abused or disabused; Created half to rise, and half to fall; Great lord of all things, yet a prey to all; Sole judge of truth, in endless error hurled,- The glory, jest, and riddle of the world.
Truth shines the brighter, clad in verse.
Our business in the field of fight, Is not to question, but to prove our might.
What dire offence from am'rous causes springs, What mighty contests rise from trivial things.