Beyond the limits of a vulgar fate, Beneath the good how far,-but far above the great.

Visions of glory, spare my aching sight! Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul!

Alas, regardless of their doom, the little victims play! No sense have they of ills to come nor care beyond today.

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.

When love could teach a monarch to be wise, And gospel-light first dawn'd from Bullen's eyes.

The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

Sorrow's faded form, and solitude behind.