The lark that shuns on lofty boughs to build, Her humble nest, lies silent in the field.
Fade, flowers, fade! Nature will have it so; 'tis but what we in our autumn do.
Poets that lasting marble seek, Must come in Latin or in Greek.
But virtue too, as well as vice, is clad in flesh and blood.
Gods, that never change their state, vary oft their love and hate.
Happy is she that from the world retires, and carries with her what the world admires.