O peace! how many wars were waged in thy name.
Who dare to love their country, and be poor.
The worst of madmen is a saint run mad.
The race by vigour, not by vaunts, is won.
Truths would you teach, or save a sinking land? All fear, none aid you, and few understand.
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!