His spear, to equal which the tallest pine Hewn on Norwegian hills to be the mast Of some great ammiral were but a wand, He walk'd with to support uneasy steps Over the burning marle.

Men of most renowned virtue have sometimes by transgressing most truly kept the law.

Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil.

Her virtue and the conscience of her worth, That would be woo'd, and not unsought be won.

Smiles from reason flow, To brute deny'd, and are of love the food.

Earth felt the wound; and Nature from her seat, Sighing through all her works, gave signs of woe That all was lost.

Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise