Hide me from day's garish eye.
Courage never to submit of yield.
Such as the meeting soul may pierce, In notes with many a winding bout Of linked sweetness long drawn out.
That power Which erring men call Chance.
Virtue that wavers is not virtue.
Th' ethereal mould Incapable of stain would soon expel Her mischief, and purge off the baser fire, Victorious. Thus repuls'd, our final hope Is flat despair.