Vexed sailors cursed the rain, for which poor shepherds prayed in vain.
Happy the innocent whose equal thoughts are free from anguish as they are from faults.
But virtue too, as well as vice, is clad in flesh and blood.
Illustrious acts high raptures do infuse, And every conqueror creates a muse.
The lark that shuns on lofty boughs to build, Her humble nest, lies silent in the field.
Poets lose half the praise they should have got, Could it be known what they discreetly blot.