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.
Death, only death, can break the lasting chain; And here, ev'n then, shall my cold dust remain
Is pride, the never-failing vice of fools.
The life of a wit is a warfare upon earth.
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!