O let me be undone the common way, And have the common comfort to be pity'd, And not be ruin'd in the mask of bliss, And so be envy'd, and be wretched too!
What is a miracle?--'Tis a reproach, 'Tis an implicit satire on mankind; And while it satisfies, it censures too.
Like our shadows, our wishes lengthen as our sun declines.
The soul of man was made to walk the skies.
The spirit walks of every day deceased.
With fame, in just proportion, envy grows.