Those oft are stratagems which errors seem Nor is it Homer nods, but we that dream.
Our business in the field of fight, Is not to question, but to prove our might.
Still when the lust of tyrant power succeeds, some Athens perishes, or some Tully bleeds.
All chance, direction, which thou canst not see
What woeful stuff this madrigal would be, In some starved hackney sonneteer, or me! But let a lord once own the happy lines, How the wit brightens! how the style refines!
And make each day a critic on the last.