The fear of Hell, or aiming to be blest, Savors too much of private interest. This moved not Moses, nor the zealous Paul, Who for their friends abandoned soul and all.

Give us enough but with a sparing hand.

And keeps the palace of the soul.

Illustrious acts high raptures do infuse, And every conqueror creates a muse.

Music so softens and disarms the mind That not an arrow does resistance find.

All human things Of dearest value hang on slender strings.

Fade, flowers, fade! Nature will have it so; 'tis but what we in our autumn do.