Fame is the last infirmity of the human mind.
It was the winter wild, While the Heaven-born child, All meanly wrapt in the rude manger lies.
But oh! as to embrace me she inclin'd, I wak'd, she fled, and day brought back my night.
Arm the obdured breast with stubborn patience as with triple steel.
Praise from an enemy smells of craft.
Goodness thinks no ill Where no ill seems.