O fleeting joys Of Paradise, dear bought with lasting woes!

Fame is the last infirmity of the human mind.

Who shall silence all the airs and madrigals that whisper softness in chambers?

More safe I sing with mortal voice, unchang'd To hoarse or mute, though fall'n on evil days, On evil days though fall'n, and evil tongues.

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.

Love Virtue, she alone is free, She can teach ye how to climb Higher than the sphery chime; Or, if Virtue feeble were, Heav'n itself would stoop to her.

They also serve who only stand and wait.