Fool that I was, upon my eagle's wings I bore this wren, till I was tired with soaring, and now he mounts above me.
For all have not the gift of martyrdom.
So over violent, or over civil that every man with him was God or Devil.
A lively faith will bear aloft the mind, and leave the luggage of good works behind.
What passion cannot music raise and quell!
Content with poverty, my soul I arm; And virtue, though in rags, will keep me warm.