Now as the Paradisiacal pleasures of the Mahometans consist in playing upon the flute and lying with Houris, be mine to read eternal new romances of Marivaux and Crebillon.
Poetry is thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.
Chill penury repress'd their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul.
Each in his narrow cell forever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.
Hands that the rod of empire might have sway'd, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.
Full many a gem of purest ray serene The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear: Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air.