He touch'd the tender stops of various quills, With eager thought warbling his Doric lay.
Yet I argue not Against Heav'n's hand or will, nor bate a jot Of heart or hope; but still bear up and steer Right onward.
In naked beauty most adorned.
For what can war, but endless war, still breed?
Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise
A man may be ungrateful, but the human race is not so.