But virtue too, as well as vice, is clad in flesh and blood.
Happy is she that from the world retires, and carries with her what the world admires.
And keeps the palace of the soul.
Thrice happy is that humble pair, Beneath the level of all care! Over whose heads those arrows fly, Of sad distrust and jealousy.
Fade, flowers, fade! Nature will have it so; 'tis but what we in our autumn do.
Give us enough but with a sparing hand.