The gay motes that people the sunbeams.
The brazen throat of war.
For what is glory but the blaze of fame?
His sleep Was aery light, from pure digestion bred.
No worthy enterprise can be done by us without continual plodding and wearisomeness to our faint and sensitive abilities.
Such as the meeting soul may pierce, In notes with many a winding bout Of linked sweetness long drawn out.