'T is greatly wise to talk with our past hours, And ask them what report they bore to heaven.
Nature delights in progress; in advance.
When pain can't bless, heaven quits us in despair.
The man that blushes is not quite a brute.
Give me, indulgent gods with mind serene, And guiltless heart, to range the sylvan scene, No splendid poverty, no smiling care, No well-bred hate, or servile grandeur, there.
Some for renown, on scraps of learning dote, And think they grow immortal as they quote.