Hung over her enamour'd, and beheld Beauty, which, whether waking or asleep, Shot forth peculiar graces.
The nodding horror of whose shady brows Threats the forlorn and wandering passenger.
Her silent course advance With inoffensive pace, that spinning sleeps On her soft axle.
In those vernal seasons of the year when the air is calm and pleasant, it were an injury and sullenness against nature not to go out and see her riches, and partake in her rejoicing with heaven and earth.
Fame is the last infirmity of the human mind.
Now I see Peace to corrupt no less than war to waste.