But virtue too, as well as vice, is clad in flesh and blood.

For all we know Of what the blessed do above Is, that they sing, and that they love. While I listen to thy Voice.

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

Go, lovely rose, Tell her that wastes her time and me, That now she knows, When I resemble her to thee, How sweet and fair she seems to be.

Thrice happy is that humble pair, Beneath the level of all care! Over whose heads those arrows fly, Of sad distrust and jealousy.

But virtue too, as well as vice, is clad in flesh and blood.

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