Poets lose half the praise they should have got, Could it be known what they discreetly blot.

The soul's dark cottage, batter'd and decay'd, Lets in new light through chinks that Time has made. Stronger by weakness, wiser men become As they draw near to their eternal home: Leaving the old, both worlds at once they view That stand upon the threshold of the new.

His love at once and dread instruct our thought; As man He suffer'd and as God He taught.

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.

That eagle's fate and mine are one, Which, on the shaft that made him die, Espied a feather of his own, Wherewith he wont to soar so high.

What use of oaths, of promise, or of test, where men regard no God but interest?

With wisdom fraught; not such as books, but such as practice taught.