With a smile that glow'd Celestial rosy red, love's proper hue.

From restless thoughts, that, like a deadly swarm Of hornets arm'd, no sooner found alone, But rush upon me thronging.

One sip of this will bathe the drooping spirits in delight, beyond the bliss of dreams.

And may at last my weary age Find out the peaceful hermitage, The hairy gown and mossy cell, Where I may sit and rightly spell Of every star that heaven doth shew, And every herb that sips the dew, Till old experience to attain To something like prophetic strain.

To be weak is miserable, Doing or suffering.

And oft, though wisdom wake, suspicion sleeps At wisdom's gate, and to simplicity Resigns her charge, while goodness thinks no ill Where no ill seems.

That practis'd falsehood under saintly shew, Deep malice to conceal, couch'd with revenge.