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

Ruin seize thee, ruthless king! Confusion on thy banners wait! Though fann'd by Conquest's crimson wing, They mock the air with idle state.

Hands that the rod of empire might have sway'd, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.

Each in his narrow cell forever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

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.

And weep the more, because I weep in vain.

To brisk notes in cadence beating, glance their many-twinkling feet.