If its length be not considered a merit, it hath no other.

All human things Of dearest value hang on slender strings.

Illustrious acts high raptures do infuse, And every conqueror creates a muse.

A narrow compass! and yet there Dwelt all that 's good, and all that 's fair; Give me but what this riband bound, Take all the rest the sun goes round.

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.

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

Vexed sailors cursed the rain, for which poor shepherds prayed in vain.