A generous friendship no cold medium knows, Burns with one love, with one resentment glows.
Wholesome solitude, the nurse of sense!
A disputant no more cares for the truth than the sportsman for the hare.
Here hills and vales, the woodland and the plain Here earth and water seem to strive again, Not chaos-like together crushed and bruised, But, as the world, harmoniously confused: Where order in variety we see, And where, though all things differ, all agree.
Whate'er the talents, or howe'er designed, We hang one jingling padlock on the mind.
Heaven from all creatures hides the book of Fate.