Of boasting more than of a bomb afraid, A soldier should be modest as a maid.
Life's cares are comforts; such by Heav'n design'd; He that hath none must make them, or be wretched.
The soul of man was made to walk the skies.
Who, for the poor renown of being smart, Would leave a sting within a brother's heart?
Mine is the night, with all her stars.
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.